More than Monsters
by RedMonocle
Summary: Running from his adversaries, Hanzo hides in a ballet director's dance company for a year, hired as a bodyguard to an omnic dancer detested by her peers. As he struggles with the regrets of his past and the tense conditions of his present, he is led to wonder if there perhaps is hope to find redemption in his future. A story in three acts. Added epilogue. COMPLETE.
1. Act I

**A/N:**

 **[Some characters were created by and belong to Blizzard Entertainment, the makers of Overwatch. The remaining characters were created by and belong to me. My original characters' names are listed at the end of each act after they are mentioned or introduced.]**

 **Hey there! It's been a while, and while it's hard to find time to write with as many credits as I'm taking, I managed to piece together this. It was originally going to be a later part in a much longer Hanzo-centric multi-chapter work, but I had to scrap it for personal reasons. There will be references to OCs who were part of that abandoned work, but it should be easy to understand nonetheless. I'm very proud of what I have here now anyway, and to make up for my prolonged absence, this an extra long act. Expect updates to be... a little sporadic, now that I'm back in school.**

 **Now, before you get into this, be warned that this is one my more... demotivating works. I know I tend to write dark things at times, but this is a little different from what I usually do. Particularly, I am consciously portraying negative character development for the first time, so if you are struggling with a recent loss or disorders like depression, please take caution before proceeding.**

 **Additional content warnings as well as explanations of certain cultural references are listed at the END of the act.  
**

 **Hope you enjoy, readers.**

 **-Reddie**

* * *

Evening summer raindrops trickle against the kitchen window, collapsing on the pavement two stories below. It is a soothing sound, static in the backdrop, accented by a burble of thunder among other noises.

Coppélia pretends not to hear the argument from the kitchen as she brews tea for the unwelcome guests. They speak in French so that the drowned rat sitting across the table from them cannot understand.

"Enough, Giselle," Frauke replies firmly, "we do not need any more of your strays tagging along with us."

The one unpleasant thing about the theatre manager is not her voice but how its sound carries so well. It clatters down the hallway like a brand new pair of pointe shoes, thrown against the walls because they happened to be the wrong size. Any other time, Frauke speaks like a rich symphony. Coppélia has always secretly enjoyed the warmth of her speech, how it flows like hot water from a kettle into a cup when she speaks of upcoming performances, of ticket sales, of all the other dancers in the company. But when she speaks of Coppélia, it feels more like hot water intentionally pouring out onto a hand. Coppélia understands where the ill sentiment stems from and does not object.

"This man is not just any ordinary stray. He can be an asset to us if we choose to employ him."

"Like the omnic dancer, you mean?" Any other occasion, Frauke's laugh would feel less like a knife to the chest. Coppélia tries to steady her hand as she places the electric kettle back on the counter top. She knows it's a bad idea to be listening, but the voice is compelling, soothing regardless of the sting. Frauke continues, "Remember, we would not need to even consider him if you had simply not recruited her. It could save us a lot more on expenses to do away with her rather than hire a bodyguard."

Coppélia curls her fingers against the cabinet before opening it.

Giselle rejoins, "Well, it would take a real fool to spurn such talent on petty grounds."

 _Someone I can always count on_ , Coppélia hums to herself internally. She reaches in for Giselle's favorite brand of jasmine green tea, holding it in her palm gently. Frauke isn't finished, but Coppélia thinks she's heard enough already. She attempts to distract herself with the floral patterns etched across the tin packaging. Unfortunately, the voice still filters through clear as crystal.

Frauke sighs, "I am not denying that the omnic has skill. And yes, we _have_ gained more attention for her presence. But this is anything but petty. Coppélia puts all of us in danger. The incident from last month in Russia only further proves that."

"No one was injured," Giselle protests, voice rising.

Surprisingly, the rat speaks.

"Excuse me, but would it not be more beneficial to have this conversation in a language all of us can understand?" The words come out in English, low and roughened by exhaustion, "I wish to know frankly where I stand, if that is alright."

Frauke continues on in French, "Listen to that. Impatient, and on top of that perpetual frown. Do you really want to have him around?"

"Hush," Giselle chastises, before turning to him, "Pardon, Hanzo. We got carried away talking about affairs within the company. We shall continue in English if that is what you wish, and get back to discussing what we are seeking from you."

"Thank you," he breathes. Somehow, his exasperation with Frauke fills Coppélia with hope. Time will tell, she supposes. She cannot hold any expectations that he will easily tolerate her, much less be fond of her.

Frauke calls, persisting in French, "Coppélia, where's the tea?"

"Just a moment," Coppélia responds in the same tongue, arranging the cups on the tray. She almost regrets having to install French language comprehension software. It doesn't take more than a minute before she's finally into the hallway. Giselle's English is lost in the sound of footsteps, but the disdained dancer cannot bring herself to care for details she's already heard.

"…necessary to attend every class and rehearsal. Lastly, we travel frequently as well, so—ah, hello there, Coppélia."

At the sound of her name, his eyes go wide, vision darting from the table towards Coppélia. His sights leave her just as quickly, a fluttering glance. It takes only a nanosecond for her to process the fear in his expression. His body language and temperature readings support the notion, and she feels herself deflate fast as she serves him his tea, looking across the table instead. The sight of Giselle, with her glossed lips pursed in thoughtful contemplation, buoys the young omnic.

"Greetings, Giselle," Coppélia practically croons, placing a teacup before her with all the grace she is capable of. The thankful fleeting smile that reaches her in response makes for a small blessing, taking an edge off the uneasiness that had crept into her system. Frauke restores it with a noise of disgust. The stubborn woman is met with an unceremonious serving of tea to placate her.

Giselle extends her prosthetic hand, gesturing to Hanzo. The way he flinches ever so slightly does not escape Coppélia.

"I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Hanzo Shimada, your prospective bodyguard." Hearing the name, Coppélia runs a quick search. A number of articles involving him and his family come up, bringing forth accusations conflicting with evidence and other declarations. Several of his past pictures are drastically different from the cropped hairstyle he sports now. The Shimada family seems respectable on the surface, but she cannot shake the unsavory subtext. This background check confuses her. She eyes him warily.

"A pleasure to meet you," Hanzo greets, barely nodding to her. The tiredness has not left his voice. Coppélia considers offering her hand forward and decides against it.

She bows instead, "Indeed." The man poses no reaction. Smoothly, Coppélia takes her seat next to him, leaving a bit of space.

Giselle finishes debriefing Hanzo on his duties, everything his job will entail and his limitations for the sake of Coppélia's right to privacy. As he agrees to take on the job, Frauke does not speak a single word, face shielded by her teacup. One would think she's been sated. But the way she nudges Coppélia to pour her more is telling of the new complications added to her troubles.

She busies herself in her bodyguard's expression, the faint delight in his features as he sips his drink, and wonders how long before he turns against her too.

* * *

After the meeting, Giselle situates Hanzo.

Giselle's one-room apartment is a reasonably small place, a perfect fit for two people, big enough to house the once-homeless Coppélia and herself comfortably. But with Hanzo now under her wing and just as much a stray as Frauke said, Giselle figures she can fit three with a bit of adjustment. And Coppélia is the opposite of resistant to her solution.

That evening, after the young dancer vacates her room to help Giselle move the sofa closer to an electrical outlet (for overnight charging), the new bodyguard is left alone to crumple gratefully into bed, body willing but mind too consumed in thought to allow him sleep. He stares at his ceiling, counting sheep like puffs of someone's cigarillo smoke floating overhead, but the sheep turn to blood and screaming and headlight eyes looming overhead.

Frustrated, he turns on his side with a grunt, dispelling memories.

Hanzo has spent many years traveling, fluttering between cities, islands, continents. He travelled on foot for miles, traced paths along subway stations to their ends, hidden himself as a stowaway on boats and airplanes when he could help it, because the farther and faster he can get away from those chasing him, the better.

And Coppélia unfortunately looks like the first assassin sent after him since he left Hanamura. Her sleek golden-glowing eyes looking down on him only further serves to remind him of close encounters with oh so desired and detested death. If Giselle's prosthetic alone is enough to make his throat clench at the memory of being strangled by metal hands, what possesses him to think accepting this job is a good idea?

He doesn't have an answer aside from the fact that he is a stubborn man.

This, his self-proclaimed endurance for any hardship, is what drives him to remain tethered to life through his grief and overwhelming regret. Whether the omnic is worthy of his protection is beside the question. Whether he deserves to feel safe in her presence while seeking safety in the mobility of an internationally touring dance company stands as a conundrum, and neither a negative nor positive answer would satisfy him. Simply to spite the demons that haunt him, he swears to guard her with his life. And is there honor in that, perhaps, to lay down his life and possibly lose it? He wants to wonder if the existence of an omnic could even compare at all to the life of his brother, but cannot afford the luxury of pondering it too deeply.

For him, the task of redemption, of reclaiming honor he'd thrown away, still proves insurmountable. But he will still strive regardless of what anyone says, and of what anything within him doubts. To give up would be a disgrace that would forever lie beneath him.

He closes his eyes, humoring but ultimately unable to indulge full slumber. And when he rises from bed the next day before the sun, he wrestles his weary limbs into black slacks and the long sleeves of a slate button-up. Even the coffee brewed by Coppélia is hardly sufficient in rousing him. Regardless, he emits no complaint.

He truly is stubborn. It shows in the way he stares straight into Coppélia's eyes across the table. Her attentions are set upon cutting the core from slices of an unpeeled apple. The pieces fall into a plastic container already half-filled with orange slices and halved strawberries.

As she seals the top over the container, she looks up at him, watching the corners of his mouth twitch uncomfortably as their eyes meet. He does not dare break his gaze.

Coppélia tilts her head to the side, "What's wrong, Hanzo? Is the food not to your liking?"

"It is fine," he replies, shaking his head. Without hesitation, he stuffs one of the croissants before him into his mouth, becoming aware of his hunger only then. She pushes a jar of jam across the table, which he ignores in favor of scarfing down his food.

"Was your rest unsatisfactory then? You seem tired."

"I slept fine," he insists doggedly, a sliver of irritation lining his words. What can an omnic possibly understand about something as human as sleep? He gulps down his coffee with his last bite of croissant. She analyzes his slack grip on the cup carefully, seeing right through him.

"Tomorrow morning, I can make a stronger brew," Coppélia replies warily, watching Hanzo's brows knit together briefly. He takes offense to her lack of faith in his words.

"Thank you," Hanzo scoffs, "but you need not do such a thing. I do not wish to waste Ms. Sauveterre's coffee."

Coppélia presses, "Giselle would not mind, I'm certain." Hanzo blinks at that, setting his cup in front of him. He glances to the side, spying an empty plate at the end of the table, dirtied by yogurt and fruit juice stains.

"Where _is_ she?" His eyes flicker to the digital clock on the wall behind Coppélia.

"She already left to prepare for class."

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, "So early? And without you?"

"This is a normal occurrence, albeit I am typically the first to awaken and to leave. She asked me to stay behind this time so you didn't have to wake up early for your first day." Hanzo flushes at this, further irritated.

"As benevolent as that is," he exhales, "tell her I do not need to be coddled."

Coppélia cannot help the defensiveness in her tone, "With all due respect, Hanzo, I do not believe she is coddling you at all. Given how tired you were last night, I believe what she showed you is called 'consideration'." He pauses, but does not look the least bit taken aback. In fact, he just looks angrier.

Keeping his voice steady, he responds with a wave of his hand, "Then pass along my gratitude to your precious master." The cup returns to his lips. Coppélia stands suddenly, slighted. Her voice is harsh, bordering on a shout.

"You can tell her yourself." This time, Hanzo flinches, jerking the cup away from his mouth. Noticing this, she takes a step backward, retracting her hands from the table. Turning her gaze away, she continues, "When you're done, be ready to leave. And remember that you were hired to work for _me_." From the corner of her visual range, she watches his face, the way his brows furrow, lips opening like he wants to retort. He merely sucks in a breath.

"Understood," he breathes out, and that is the last word out of him for the morning.

The apartment fills with silence as Coppélia stores the fruit container in the fridge, reflecting on their interaction in dismay. Then, as he proceeds ahead of her, Coppélia can't help running scans again, flipping back over his temperature and heart rate readings. She aches for an apology but knows she will not receive one soon. But that is nothing new. And it's hard for her to stay mad at him when she knows he's frightened.

* * *

Hanzo ponders on it as well.

Staring out the car window at the colorful scenery of Annecy, he reflects on his words with a tinge of remorse, though he is unsure if an apology would be wasted should she not feel hurt like humans. Either way, he does not deny that he had earned her disrespect, and he comes to the conclusion that it is necessary to gain her respect if he is to continue working honorably with her.

He sits behind a piano and contemplates it throughout the first hour of class, watching Coppélia oil her joints on the studio floor, before rising to practice at the bar where Giselle awaits her. From the corner of the room, he listens as the director mumbles on in French to Coppélia, which he quickly learns are the names for movements. Giselle repeats some of these words, firm and patient, and Coppélia moves wordlessly to match them, gracefully steady when asked to hold a position. Her quietness in the face of command holds a certain determination, a sense of discipline that reminds Hanzo of years in martial arts training.

The sound of the studio door opening is not what breaks his attention, but rather the loud whistle tossed in his direction is what jars him. A broad-shouldered woman saunters through the door, the tousled dark hairs of her bangs a stark contrast to the sleek blonde ponytail behind her head. The sizeable presence of her frame causes a pang as he is reminded of his cigarillo-smoking desert companion. But she lacks the same conspicuousness in her approaching footfall.

Before he is aware, she is before him, cornering him with one arm braced against a neighboring wall. The woman barely hovers at the edge of fully invading his personal space. He flushes, feeling foolish for letting down his guard.

"Why, hello there, handsome," She greets, Slavic accent hardly perceptible under the warm drawl. He looks at her questioningly.

"It's Hanzo, actually," he corrects glibly, missing the compliment entirely. As he stands, she gives, stepping backward to let him move. A bark of a laugh issues from her throat.

"Very well then!" She extends her hand, no trace of hesitation in taking Hanzo's. He matches the strength of her grip in a swift shake before letting go. "My name is Veronika. A pleasure to meet you."

The smolder in her eyes draws attention to the crimson wings of her eyeliner. His heart sinks ever so slightly as he remembers the friend he abandoned in South Korea.

"Likewise," He says curtly, dispelling the memory. "I do not wish to hinder you, so if you will."

She catches his gesture to the bar and shoots him a fleeting wink as she proceeds over. Releasing an exhale, he glances back at Coppélia and Giselle, catching a breath of English between them. There is something about the way that Coppélia suddenly insists she can dance alone that tips Hanzo off to an edge in the atmosphere. Veronika smiles pointedly at the omnic dancer before choosing the other end of the bar to practice by. A slender young man and a much shorter blue-eyed cohort enter the studio chattering, both of them glancing over at Hanzo, and then completely ignoring Coppélia. More dancers shuffle in, noticeably strained whenever Coppélia sends so much as an indirect glance their way.

Giselle stands beside each of them and provides instruction as she did for Coppélia, albeit with more brevity in each interaction. When she reaches the end of the line, she lets them break for a snack, causing the dancers to gather in groups on the floor, many speaking Russian aside from conversations in French or English. Coppélia digs through her bag alone, fluttering past the other dancers to approach Giselle with the fruit container. The two of them talk softly in French, and way the director laughs is somewhat heartwarming to witness. What isn't so heartwarming, however, is how the eyes of other dancers shift over Coppélia, and how the murmurs seem to intensify.

The pianist eventually arrives and displaces Hanzo a little after the break ends, giving him an excuse to stand closer by, to search for positive reactions to the omnic dancer. When Giselle sets them in random pairs for partner exercises, he thinks he sees agreeable sentiment, but most of it appears hollow or strained upon further inspection. Smiles do not reach eyes, nor does enthusiasm resound in their voices. The last dancer to lift Coppélia seems eager to let her go.

By the time Giselle calls it in for the day and leaves them to their own devices, most follow suit and depart as well not long after. Hanzo reclaims the piano bench. Out of the few who stay behind, one of them approaches Coppélia, looking very unhappy. Perhaps "unhappy" is an insufficient descriptor, because Hanzo feels the need to intervene.

Veronika stops him, slinging an arm over his shoulder from behind. He has half a mind to flip her over onto the ground and manages to resist.

"Whoa, relax, tough guy," she chuckles, lowering her voice. Coppélia goes back and forth in tense conversation with the other dancer, once again in a language he cannot understand. Their volume hitches.

"It's Hanzo," he restates, ducking out of her hold. "Now if you'll excuse me." She blocks his way this time, bringing a hand back down on his shoulder. A swell of sickness in his stomach rises, instincts alight with unfortunate recollections.

"Still so tense! Let me talk to you for a minute."

"No." As he tries to proceed past her, she pulls him back to whisper in his ear.

"You don't know things about her." This stops him completely. She continues, "You are her bodyguard, yeah? It's _important_ you know."

"What could I possibly not know about her that Ms. Sauveterre hasn't already told me?"

"She will not tell you the omnic's real name." Hanzo narrows his eyes at Veronika, but she goes on explaining, "It's 'Ubiytsa'. That means 'assassin' in Russian. If you look closely, you can see it in the faded gray text written all over her arms. She tries to paint over it thinking nobody will notice, but any dancer here who reads Russian can confirm it for you too. And with how massive her arms are, she's probably also hiding laser cannons in them!"

"Enough," Coppélia interjects, as angry as she was when he had offended her this morning. Instantly, Veronika takes her hands off of Hanzo.

"What is the matter, charming doll?"

Coppélia points a finger, huffing, "Don't spread rumors about me, Veronika."

"Aw, listen, lovely," Veronika speaks downright condescendingly, "Do you not think it is only fair this man should know he is guarding a weapon?"

"Doesn't matter _what_ I was built to be!" Coppélia really shouts this time. Lowering her tone, she says, "All that matters is what I choose to be now."

Veronika smirks, "How fitting it is that you choose to be the director's slave then. Maybe that's why she keeps you, huh? I haven't seen you do anything to earn your place here as a _real_ dancer."

"I've heard enough from you," Coppélia replies bitterly, a break in her tone betraying her. Veronika's laugh sounds absolutely cruel at this point. The omnic dancer begins to turn away.

"If you've had enough, then by all means, quit!"

"As I've said before," Coppélia rejoins with a commanding patience to her voice, "I'll sooner die than resign from this company. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Coppélia bristles past her to dance at the bar once again, repeating a familiar pattern, where Hanzo recognizes a motion known as an arabesque. Veronika scoffs and dances in the middle of the floor, partnering with the slender young man from earlier. Eventually, Coppélia is satisfied with her practice, and leaves, leading Hanzo away with her.

When they are back in the apartment, Hanzo passes by the kitchen for a glass of water. He finds Coppélia there, busy chopping more fruit. Veronika's words resonate in his skull, a stark contrast to the gentle image in front of him. His voice tumbles out before he can stop it.

"Coppélia."

"Yes, Hanzo?" She does not turn to look at him, focused on the task at hand. He walks into the kitchen, stepping beside her.

"It has been a long day. You should rest." Coppélia pauses.

"While you are correct to suggest that, I am afraid I cannot leave this unfinished."

"I can take care of it then," Hanzo responds, carefully taking the knife from her. His heart clatters in his chest, keeping his eyes off her hands as much as possible. Coppélia stares at him in confusion and disbelief, running a body temperature scan. He urges, "You require rest in order to perform, otherwise you may collapse and possibly damage yourself. Think of this as a form of my service."

"Hanzo…"

"Go," he shoos, no longer facing her. "We will see each other in the morning."

After a long moment, she finally decides to leave. He does not miss her slight bow before she disappears from sight. He gives a sigh, as if that will stop his tired smile from trying to take shape.

As he looks down to the vibrant green pears on the cutting board, his frown easily returns. Echoes of Genji's scream ring in his skull, flooding his memory in red. When he looks to his hand, the knife blade reflects the face of a monster. The thought that he will never again see a human in his reflection terrifies him more than golden-glowing eyes ever will.

"All that matters," he murmurs to himself, "is what I choose to be now."

Though he doesn't quite believe the words, he is at least enough at peace to finish the task at hand.

* * *

Whatever semblance of pity for he harbored now for the omnic mattered little to him. With time, it would all pass.

At the back of his mind, he'd already carved his own personal deadline, a timeframe to leave before the dogs of the Shimada-gumi picked back up on his scent. From all the cavalier alliances he had formed over the course of his runaway travels, he had learned to be prepared to flee any day without warning. Nursing a broken heart became no less difficult with each departure, but at least he knew what to expect and how to cope. This time would be no different. For now, he is content to watch the conditions surrounding him unfold. Hanzo observes his peers like a gargoyle: a stone sentry perched in place as the skies spin overhead.

Classes proceed with the same unfaltering sentiment of disdain and discomfort, enough so that whenever Giselle leaves the room, his vigilance heightens. Much like Veronika, it seems that most of if not all the dancers in the company prefer Coppélia gone. While he doesn't particularly care for her as anything other than a colleague, even he has the maturity to keep his mixed feelings towards omnics out of his work. The nasty looks some of them send her is enough to irritate him. As far as he knew, she has done no wrong by any of them.

In contrast, they seem to grow friendlier towards him with each passing class. He cannot bring himself to despise their banter and compliments. However, he keenly senses their ulterior motives to pit him against Coppélia as well. Hanzo is tired of participating in civil wars. He already has his hands full fighting with his own conflicted spirit.

One especially terrible evening, Genji's scream tears through his conscience like a vengeful blade. Tonight, even with his steadfast twisted sense of duty, he cannot bear to force himself through the torment of remembering the altercation. So Hanzo rises restless from bed, nearly tripping over what appears to be Giselle's old ballet shoes, to drag out his canteen and drown the wretched sound in alcohol.

The taste of whiskey brings the American southwest back to him, floods his senses with a desert sunset over a hotel balcony, the alcohol poured out between them as Hanzo confesses his regret, the listless strum of a guitar as wafts of cigarillo smoke melt into the darkening sky. The twang of his companion's voice wraps around him like a weathered scarlet serape, warm and comforting in its familiarity, like a blessing he sorely believes he does not deserve.

 _Shucks, just 'cause you made a mountain of a mess don't mean it can't ever be cleaned up._

Those words echo back to him, and he believes them even less than he believes Coppélia's claims. But he clings regardless, wishing to live in a way that can honor the traitor who saved his life, and in way he hopes can honor the precious life he took. Ah, he _hopes_.

As expected, the ceiling starts swimming, a telltale sign he's had enough. Displeased by the thought of sitting hungover through tomorrow's work (or even worse, vomiting anytime soon), he stumbles out into the hall in search of water.

"Bas…tard… Jesse…"

That is how Giselle finds him in the kitchen at four AM, mumbling curses at a cowboy into a glass of water.

"Hanzo, what is the meaning of this?"

Hanzo turns his bleary gaze to her, unprepared for company, let alone the question. He quickly loosens his tense shoulders, letting them fall slack, before setting his glass aside. He averts his eyes, ashamed.

"I needed water," he admits, the lilted slur in his words less indicative of his state than the redness on his cheeks. She steps forward, arms crossed.

It comes out more like a fact than a question, "You're drunk."

"Yes…" Then he murmurs, "You talk… like Jiyeong."

At the smell of his breath, Giselle is taken aback, "Who?"

"She also… drank sometimes too," he rambles on, looking up at Giselle. He gulps the last of his water. "We lived together in Busan for some time. Months." His heart crumples in his chest, crestfallen, "I don't… know where she's now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Giselle sighs, voice gentle as she walks over to him. "Now, that's enough." He is too lost in his empty glass, the clarity and cold, the opposite of the blurry bleeding memories pervading his mind. A glimpse of her stump brings a flicker of Jesse in and out of his consciousness. It doesn't help that Giselle continues to speak so much like Jiyeong, as if every trembling ember of his past is meant to scorch him in the present.

Tears prickle his eyes as he chokes out, "I missed… her wedding…"

"I _said_ ," She repeats, no longer tender, "that's enough. Do not say another word." He quiets, rubbing a fist over his eyes. Such sharpness reminds him of Jiyeong too. "Hanzo. Listen to me carefully. _Never_ let me find you drunk like this again. Do you understand?" Slowly, he nods his head in affirmation, eyes welling again. Gentleness seeps back into her voice, "Good. Now please go back to bed."

Head down, he rises to his feet. It catches her off-guard as he moves to embrace her, before he walks away.

* * *

Coppélia watches over her bodyguard too.

Sliding slices of banana into a fruit container, she notices the way Hanzo fixes his eyes longingly upon his coffee in the morning, like it's his only friend, and Giselle's concerned glances across the table. He appears as much of a drowned rat as the day he'd first been brought in, but Coppélia cannot bring herself to think any less of him. The steadiness in his hands as he presses his cup to his lips is almost graceful, and the way he places it empty back upon the table is precise, delicate. Her co-workers only treat her so gently when they lift her off the ground. She remembers nearly being dropped in class not too long ago, and blames it on the weight in her arms, though she does uncomfortably suspect other reasons for it.

" _You require rest in order to perform, otherwise you may collapse and possibly damage yourself."_

As she oils her joints on the floor, she keeps sight of his feet when she loses his face behind Rico's slender frame and Veronika's shoulders. From this angle, Hanzo's ankles seem so thin in comparison to the rest of his body. While they don't seem like they were exactly built to hold him up on his toes, she doesn't doubt that he could, given proper training. And Giselle spoke of him demonstrating remarkable balance and strength when she met him on a late trip to the gym. Curious, Coppélia can't help but wonder what Giselle saw. But Coppélia knows what she sees as she rises: an insincere smile despite smooth and easy talk, and eyes brightening visibly at the mention of the upcoming announcements after recent auditions.

There's something intriguing about a drowned rat making himself at home amidst a flock of swans, so out of place but not minding how far he is from his nest nonetheless. It doesn't seem illogical to her to theorize that, perhaps, he may have been drawn towards this position partially because ballet appealed to him. She recalls the background check, and makes parallels between dance and defense, the patience and discipline that go into training, the way power and skills are honed to make difficult movement look effortless. She wants to know if Hanzo had ever considered dancing ballet.

So when they are the last two left behind in the studio that evening, she asks.

He cannot help the chuckle in his reply, "Well, your company certainly has taught me deeper appreciation for it. Why do you ask?"

"I was curious. You strike me as someone who could give a powerful performance, given practice."

"Hm. Perhaps… under different circumstances, I would have pursued this craft." He sounds wistful, "But even if I so desired, I believe I've already missed my chance to pursue it."

"Nonsense!" Her voice spikes in excitement, "It's never too late! I started when I was seventeen years old," leaping towards him, "and Xiuying joined us at nearly _thirty_ after retiring from ice skating!" She thrusts her hand out eagerly, inviting him, "If you wanted, I could show you a basic lift or—"

Involuntarily, Hanzo braces rigid arms in front of him, shielding himself. His legs are set apart in a stiff stance, as if to keep from falling backwards. Coppélia freezes, and then drops her arm to her side, clutching it in embarrassment with the other. She looks away from him, and he lets down his arms as well, head reeling in waves of shame and anger.

He clears his throat, voice cool but tight, "I would rather not. Thank you." Silence fills the space between them as Coppélia retreats a few steps.

"I understand," she replies at last, nodding. Hanzo can't help but think she sounds hurt, but something about the statement ticks him off. What would an omnic understand about how _he_ feels? She doesn't know the _first_ thing about him, about everything he's been through. Nobody does.

They leave and lock up the studio hardly ten minutes later, Coppélia feeling guilty as she runs her scans again. His brain activity, atop the racing pulse and increased body heat, seems to circulate at concerning rates over an area involving memory. She doesn't desire to see what goes through his mind. Images of blood and flesh bits strewn over the streets already stain her memory. She does not wonder why he is afraid of her. But for just a moment… was it so wrong to have hoped that he would look at her as something other than a monster?

" _Do you not think it is only fair this man should know he is guarding a weapon?_ "

She shakes her head of the thought as she unlocks the door to the apartment. Swaddled in a throw blanket, Giselle greets her with open arms from the sofa, inviting the two of them to watch a classic French film. From the music, Coppélia recognizes it as one of Giselle's favorites: the story of a lonely girl with a wide imagination. Hanzo declines to watch, treading silently back to his room. As he leaves, Giselle casts a sulking glance behind him, before moving her eyes back to Coppélia. She gestures to the open space beside her, not just an invitation but a welcoming. Her spirit swells with affection, something so tender she forgets about the algorithms and codes that cause her to doubt sentiments this strong. There is conscious free-thinking life stirring in her circuits, something inside her that _wants_. She _feels_. Giselle reassures her of that.

Coppélia nestles next to the human, very much at home. After plugging Coppélia into the nearby wall socket, Giselle shifts a leg to rest across the omnic's lap, emitting calm body heat unlike the kind Coppélia so regularly encounters in her scans. The pulse thrumming beneath the director's ribcage is heavy, but unhurried. It is a slight surprise when Giselle drapes an arm around her halfway through the film, watching as the young woman onscreen abandons her cake in-progress, rushing to the front door but not answering the knock. The man on the other side slides a note under it, promising to return. Giselle makes a small noise in the back of her throat.

"Are you alright like this?" Coppélia asks in a low tone, speaking the tongue most natural to Giselle.

"Yes," Giselle breathes out a whiff of alcohol that she thinks Coppélia can't detect, resting a cheek against the cool metal of her shoulder, "perfectly fine."

 _Someone I can always count on_ , Coppélia hums inside, leaning into Giselle as well. The empty glass of water on the ottoman goes forgotten as they slip into slumber.

* * *

The announcement for casting falls over the dancers in the company like a timed bomb: soft ticking, followed by an explosion.

Giselle gathers the dancers together for a shortened class in the studio, and then at the end, updates the announcement board by the door with a single tap and swipe. In her wake, the list appears, pinned to the screen. And as the door shuts behind her, the dancers flock to the scene, clamoring in a cacophony of languages.

Hanzo watches them from a distance, peering over his basic French vocabulary book. Coppélia lags behind him, not because she is slow, but for a sense of security. He glances over his shoulder.

"Do you not want to know which role you were assigned?"

She does not look at him, but her voice sounds stiff, "When they disperse, I shall go look. But if you are curious, you are free to go ahead and see the casting."

Hanzo is fine to settle on a vague nod, tempted and considering to go investigate, until Veronika comes sprinting towards them. Coppélia watches his grip on his book tighten, before placing a hand on his tense shoulder.

She whispers, as if trying to soothe, "Guard down, Hanzo."

Before he can retort or shake off her hand, Coppélia slips past him, taking a few steps towards Veronika. The larger dancer stops, gesturing to Coppélia, a beckoning hand.

"Omnic, come here." The words sound strange, no detectable aggression beneath them. And something about the lilt of her voice softens the omnic.

"I have a name, Veronika," Coppélia rejoins with no bite, drawing closer regardless. As they walk side by side, Veronika's open palm drifts to the middle of the other dancer's back, patting in way that seems either heavily congratulatory or threatening. Hanzo rushes to Coppélia's side, catching up to them. The squint he sends to Veronika meets a familiar smolder, albeit somewhat dark. Veronika's eyes flicker down to Coppélia, who glances back to her in astonishment. This is the first time someone other than Giselle has touched her outside of practice.

Hanzo warns lowly, "Please, do not touch her." Veronika doesn't even look at him.

"Ahh, I don't know, Hanzo," She slinks an arm around the omnic, fingers spread over Coppélia's side. "I think you'll just need to get used to seeing my hands on her."

Coppélia can't help but ask, "What warrants this?"

"See for yourself," Veronika grins, pointing to the list.

 _COPPÉLIA CAST_

 _Orlov, Eduard – Dr. Coppelius_

 _Understudy: Xiuying Tan_

 _Astrauskas, Veronika – Franz_

 _Understudy: Rico Espinoza_

 _Coppélia – Swanhilda_

 _Understudy: Myrtle Lund_

Instantly, Coppélia makes a beeping noise no one in the room has ever heard from her before, throwing Hanzo especially for a loop.

"S-Sorry!" Coppélia responds, tripping over her words, "That was a gasp-I-I just-I can't believe it!"

Veronika laughs, lightly shaking Coppélia, "Congratulations, Swanhilda!"

"What does that _mean_?" Hanzo asks, a demanding edge masking the surge of anxiety in him.

Rico sighs, "She's been cast for the lead role of the ballet." His shorter companion pops over to have her say, high Cockney accent blaring.

She accuses, "Outta favoritism!"

"No need to be bitter, Myrtle," Rico rebuffs, knuckling her head. "You're her understudy."

"Then I _really_ hope you break a leg, Coppy-cat," She blows a kiss, as Rico drags his scrappy friend aside. Myrtle's underhanded threats go completely unnoticed by Coppélia under Veronika's excited chatter. The larger dancer has Coppélia laughing in a matter of minutes. It should soothe the bodyguard to see someone other than Giselle treat her well. However, the sight is the opposite of relaxing to Hanzo. This is Veronika. To witness her placing hands so freely upon an omnic she called a "weapon" is more than suspicious.

Coppélia thinks she knows better.

When Veronika placed a hand on her, the readings still registered as nervous: elevated heart rate and body temperature alongside stiffness in twitching muscles. And yet Veronika still went out of her way, despite her fear, to congratulate Coppélia on making the lead role. Now, to be treated by a dancer for the first time like another person instead of as a walking hazard lifts a weight in her she didn't know she'd been holding. Someone other than Giselle respects her, thinks well of her… will possibly come to consider her a friend given time. The idea makes her processors spin with giddiness and _hope_.

"In secret, I've always looked up to Veronika, actually. She is an excellent dancer," Coppélia prattles on as they drive home, "who pushed to be educated in both traditional male and female dance roles, as well as various contemporary techniques. If you've ever seen her with Myrtle or Xiuying, her lifts are effortless! She consistently demonstrates not only strength but control of her power. She's remarkable. It's almost a shame that she didn't make the role of Swanhilda herself. It will be an honor to work so closely with her." The little laugh Coppélia lets out somehow aches to Hanzo's ears. She sounds so _trusting_.

He almost feels bad for her. But every fool has to learn the hard way, he supposes. Still, some buried part of him hopes she won't have to.

* * *

Hanzo is not surprised but still disheartened see his suspicions proven correct.

The plot is clear as day, given her sneaky conversations with Rico and Myrtle. Veronika plays the card of keeping her enemy closest, hoping the omnic will not have enough time to fully recharge before the first performance. What's worse is that Coppélia adamantly refuses to acknowledge the reality of the situation, always in favor of defending Veronika. It is an interesting development from the squabble on his first day of work, but Hanzo can't say he's pleased by it.

Veronika holds out her arms to Coppélia, "One more time!"

"I think this is enough for today, Franz," Coppélia sighs, wobbling on her ankles as she stands with an arm against the wall. "My battery is running low."

"Nonsense! You can hold out! You are stronger than your battery!" Veronika demands, deceptively encouraging, "I believe in you, Swanhilda!"

It's a weak point, Hanzo muses, having seen this play out over countless classes. He wants to object despite his better instincts, but he has to remind himself not to get caught in the middle again. Cornered, Coppélia vulnerably agrees, heart soaring over the high of earning further trust from Veronika.

He blames her foolish sense of loyalty on all of the close contact. An arm slung over Coppélia's shoulders, around her waist or lower back, a hand tucked under the chin of an off-white faceplate all seem innocent and as normal as can be in series of routines requiring such intimacy. The touches occur frequently, not just during classes and rehearsals, but also before and after. The young dancer talks of Veronika's hands affectionately, even joking that if she didn't know any better about professionalism, she'd say Veronika handles her like a lover.

But Hanzo observes something different. No, Veronika wields her hands like neatly-filed talons, possessive of the omnic in her grasp as if she will never get another chance to touch Coppélia again. There is a desperate urgency by which she calls Coppélia to dance with her, to stay a little longer after classes for partnered practice even as the omnic tries to make an excuse, so as not to exhaust Hanzo and upset Giselle for returning home so late. Veronika only ever laughs when Coppélia finds a way to refuse. Veronika always wins her over.

The pattern sickens him to no end, but all he can do is stand down, cringing inside all the while, watching Veronika take advantage of Coppélia's trust.

One evening, Hanzo can only take so much. Tired, he warns that he will leave her behind at the studio, to which Coppélia responds by dismissing him for the day. That same evening, he is in the kitchen drinking tea with Giselle when a panicked Veronika comes knocking at the door. An inanimate Coppélia lies limp in her arms. Once Giselle is able to get Coppélia plugged into the wall socket, she sits Veronika down next to the bleary dancer on the couch.

"If the two of you intend to turn this production of _Coppélia_ into _Giselle_ , I won't stand for it," Giselle lectures, crossing her arms. "We have two months until the premiere. Get your acts together or your roles are both going to Rico and Myrtle. Understand?"

"Yes, Ms. Sauveterre," Veronika hangs her head, remorseful now that her role is at stake.

"Yes, Giselle," Coppélia answers in time with Veronika, sincerely ashamed to have disappointed the director. She adds, "My apologies."

Turning to the weary omnic, she softens, "Apologize by resting. Now, that's enough." Hanzo reacts to the words with a twinge that doesn't show. When Giselle's eyes are upon him, he is asked to escort Veronika out to the nearest substation, which he does guardedly. But something presses him enough that he has to ask.

Hanzo mumbles, "Ms. Sauveterre said something about turning Coppélia into... herself. I do not know what that means."

"Ah, no, no. The two of them took their names from ballets," Veronika sighs, " _Giselle_ is the name of a tragic ballet we may perform sometime in the future. She was referencing an act where characters were made to dance until they died of exhaustion."

"I see. What is the ballet _Giselle_ about?" He asks as the substation comes into view. Veronika opens her mouth for a minute like she wants to explain, before giving a light shake of the head.

"You can ask the omnic," She waves, placing the lightest, fleeting touch on his shoulder as she starts to walk past him.

Almost instinctively, he retorts, "She has a name." Veronika pauses at this.

"Yeah. Ubiytsa," she scoffs, not looking behind her. "You are more than welcome to respect her. But do not tell me how I should feel about the damned thing." Before she can move away, Hanzo catches Veronika by the shoulder, turning the tables for once.

"Why do you harbor such disdain for your colleague?"

With this, Veronika sends a withering look to him, something angry but filled with pain and loss, a bitterness that doesn't have to be spoken for him to understand. She reminds him that the Crisis has claimed many lives. And with the change in his expression, she relents.

"Listen, Hanzo. I like you." She looks away, lowering her tone, "Don't make me change my mind, please."

He loses all interest in the answer and lets her on her way, watching her walk for only a brief moment before departing.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Act warnings: allusions to past traumatic violence/altercations (strangling/choking, mild blood/gore), alcohol abuse and consumption, self-destructive behavior, catastrophic thinking, self-hatred, workplace harassment/bullying (a character is singled out, gossiped about, and verbally harassed), possessive behavior (a character is extra handsy), and** ** **emotional manipulation**. If there's anything you think I've missed, please feel free to message me or comment for me to add it in!  
**

 **Original characters introduced: Frauke, Giselle Sauveterre,** **Coppélia the omnic dancer, Veronika Astrauskas,** ** **Jiyeong (mentioned),** Xiuying Tan (mentioned), Rico Espinoza, Myrtle Lund, Eduard Orlov (mentioned).**

 **References: Pointe shoes are a kind of ballet shoe with a box inside that allows a trained dancer to appear as if they are standing on the very tips of their toes. The name of the film that** **Coppélia and Giselle were watching was the 2001 movie _Am_** ** _ **é** lie._  
**

 **-Reddie**


	2. Act II

**A/N:**

 **Aahhh, all I have to say is this is kind of blocky, so my apologies.**

 **Once again, content warnings, OCs, and references can be found at the END of the act. Thanks if you've continued reading, and hope you enjoy Act II!  
**

 **-Reddie**

* * *

They carry on as professionals.

Veronika halfway reverts to her former treatment of Coppélia: remaining distanced like before, no longer as touchy-feely with Coppélia outside of classes or rehearsals. But something that changes is the way Veronika talks to her in casual conversation… which is to say, they do not talk at all. Coppélia stands under the heavy, dull weight of silence instead of hellos or goodbyes, compliments and praise which she now starves for, something Giselle cannot quite sate even in comfort. She found fellowship in the illusion, and now the curtains have closed. Nothing wounds her more than the death of her hope for something so simple: friendship. Now she can't even have a rivalry, which at this point sounds more like a privilege compared to the bleak solitude of the quiet.

But, she understands. Whether Veronika hides behind her hatred or silence, Coppélia knows the truth from habitual scans, the swings and spikes of a racing pulse. It is the one thing that remains consistent: that fear does not ever leave Veronika's system when they are next to each other. And heaven only knows what kind of gruesome tragedy an omnic must've brought upon her and her loved ones. She thinks of ruined homes and crushed children in wrecks, parents and mentors who never returned home. Of course Coppélia understands and doesn't blame her, or anyone, who so disdains omnics the way they do. The problem, Coppélia is coming to recognize, is that no one understands _her_ , and it aches to think that no one ever will _._ How could _any_ human relate to a monster?

Then, as she least expects it, Hanzo offers solace in a strange way.

Once again, she is the last in the studio, not planning to linger too long with the premiere on the horizon. Hanzo has long since finished his basic French vocabulary booklet and moved on to practicing on an app in his phone, swiping through flashcards to test his memory. When he places it aside to speak to her, she expects him to suggest wrapping up.

Instead: "Giselle said your privacy is important," Hanzo starts tentatively, "so you are free not to answer me if this sounds intrusive. But I am curious."

His expression registers to her as something hesitant, perhaps timid, and she cannot help but wonder what he's thinking of her. She resists the urge to check the rate of his pulse.

"What do you want to know, Hanzo?"

"About your name. Coppélia." He looks at her in the studio mirror, straight in the eyes, "I am aware many omnics rename themselves to fit their interests and aspirations. I have also watched your rehearsal of this ballet enough times to know that the title is the name of the automaton made by Dr. Coppelius. Yet she has no active role in the story. No voice. Never takes so much as a step. And you name yourself after her. Why did you choose it so?"

A flutter stirs inside Coppélia as he asks, because she remembers.

She remembers brewing chamomile before the hijack seized her, the lapse of fifteen seconds becoming a matter of life and death. She remembered coming to when she rebooted, only to see her once-beloved master in pieces all over the room, as if he had been just another one of his many targets. She remembers running away from authorities with other omnic survivors of the Crisis, holing up in an abandoned radio station for shelter, whiling her hours away by going through record upon record of Tchaikovsky. She remembers how they all gathered together to listen to intercepted broadcasts of Mondatta Tekhartha, and the following pilgrimage to Nepal. She remembers how every one of her renegade friends found a home and purpose in the Shambali's village, but she was now a lost soul in a shell, stuck with songs in her head, far away from home. She remembered watching _Coppélia_ for the first time on a livestream, her heart cracking open by the end of the second act, because there in Dr. Coppelius's arms laid an automaton who never got the chance to live, to choose her life. And then she remembered hearing the "Waltz of the Hours" in the third act, and how it felt like a familiar embrace finally setting her free.

She remembers why she chose to dance in the first place.

"I wanted to change what the name meant." Coppélia confesses, before correcting the tense, "I _want_ other omnics to hear the name and believe they can be more than what they were made for."

There is a long pause before Hanzo responds, looking away from the mirror but not at Coppélia as he gives a little half-smile towards the ground. She realizes he is looking at the toes of her custom-built feet, which must look worn from pointe work since she hasn't repainted them in two months. She could easily remove them for a day, switch them out for her normal feet to save them from wear, but she never does. She worked so hard for these feet and she wants it to show.

"Noble," he affirms, with something that might look like a nod.

* * *

That single word embeds itself into her memory like a droplet on the surface of a pond. Coppélia spins at the center, Veronika's hands supporting her at the waist, gentle and strong, before lifting the omnic dancer into the air. Applause reverberates through the air as their grand pas de deux ends.

 _Noble_ … Coppélia repeats to herself in her head as she is set down, taking Veronika's hand before they bow before the audience together. She sees a faceplate somewhere in the fourth row as she rises, before Veronika tugs her along offstage. The hand that disappears altogether in the backstage light is replaced by a gentle touch from someone else, which Coppélia immediately turns to.

"Ah, Coppélia!" Giselle greets the omnic with a hug, slipping hands up to rest on metal shoulders. "Brilliant! Excellent work! I'm so _proud_ of you!" There's a glow in the older woman's smile that causes something like a swell of pride, or perhaps a gentler emotion. The word "noble" resounds once again, meaning changed by a look of inspiration in Giselle's eyes. Coppélia is humbled, to be reminded that someone has believed in her all along.

Before the young dancer can give her thanks, Veronika quips, "Hold your praise. The performance is far from over." As she reaches past Coppélia to grab a bottle of water, she points a finger at the center of the other dancer's faceplate, "Focus." Coppélia withholds comment, posing no response. She is only slightly glad Veronika has at least begun a return to the usual sardonic remarks. A flutter of applause rings through again for the end of Xiuying's solo part. Someone calls Veronika back onstage.

On that note, Veronika knocks back a gulp of her drink in a way that makes Giselle cringe for whatever reason. Concerned, Coppélia reaches to comfort her director, only to be cut off by Frauke.

"Giselle. A quick word with you?"

"Right away, Frauke," Giselle replies. The omnic becomes cognizant of the hands around her waist only once Giselle lets go to attend to the matter. Coppélia moves her gaze away to focus on the stage, where Veronika prances in circles, nearing the end of her solo. It will be Swanhilda's turn soon.

"What," Frauke, leaning in close with narrowed eyes, reprimands in French, "was the meaning of _that_?"

"Of what?" The director rejoins unthinkingly. She backs away a moment too late, Frauke's eyes already wide at the smell of wine.

The theatre manager gasps, voice rising, "You _drank_ today?"

"Hush, shh…" Giselle warns, "Keep your voice down." The request is nearly a wrong move, from the way Frauke's face scrunches like she is about to explode. Far too fortunately, the only sound she lets out is an exhale, lined with an indistinct German curse. Abruptly, the applause cues Coppélia onto the stage. Giselle's eyes follow the young dancer, wistful. Frauke's brows knit together. Recollections of dance classes gather, with a young beaming Giselle as her classmate, staring off from the bar at a pale thin girl swirling at the center of the room.

"So that's why you keep the omnic."

Giselle snaps out of her reverie, frozen.

Vehemently, she assembles her lie, shaking her head, "I have no idea what you're talking about." She cannot help the humiliated flush on her face as she tears her eyes away from Coppélia. But it's too late. Frauke is connecting the dots. Coppélia has golden eyes, the same gentle croon in her metallic voice.

"Oh god, you _live_ with her too," Frauke places her hand against her forehead, sighing. "This can't be healthy…"

"It's not what you think," Giselle insists hopelessly, trying to stifle her rising volume.

"You can't stay sober like this!"

Defenses spill out, "I am the director of this company. I have a responsibility to these dancers. I'm just doing what I can to protect—"

" _Giselle_ ," Frauke seems to be pleading, her voice breaking. "She isn't Amélie."

The director goes quiet, face scrunched. Her heart crumbles inside at the sound of the name, one she wishes she could just forget after so many years. Beyond the curtains, the audience swells with applause once more, muffling the choked noise that barely escapes her. Frauke reaches for her, causing Giselle to retreat backwards by a step. A surge of tears leak out over her cheeks, which she hastily wipes away.

She replies, voice tight, "I _know_ , Frauke."

The final number begins with a blare. All the dancers flutter onto the stage, coursing in circles around Veronika, with Coppélia held high in her arms. Symphonies flourish in accompaniment, and before they know it, the performance is over. Audience members roar in adoration, whistles lining a thunder of clapping hands. Veronika and Coppélia join hands with the rest of the cast, and take a last bow for the evening.

The curtains close, but the show goes on. Various performers receive bouquets from lingering fans as the rest of the crowd shuffles out. Giselle spectates fondly all the while, watching Coppélia sign an autograph for an omnic fan in a crisp suit. Hanzo emerges from the shadows to stand at the dancer's side. Frauke has not left Giselle's.

"I'm sorry for using her name," Frauke says, tinged in remorse. Giselle makes a soft sound, an acknowledgement that Frauke has known long enough as pardon. She continues, testing, "You may not want to hear this. But perhaps you should consider taking a break, if you won't fire Coppélia."

"We'll be going on tour soon," Giselle responds. "I can't leave now. As I said. I have a responsibility to these dancers."

"But—"

"I will find a way to deal with it. I promise."

Frauke closes her eyes, exhaling, "Alright. I trust you."

* * *

Two months have passed since Hanzo was hired, so he is thankful that the company is finally on the move.

Autumn trickles in, slow but dreamlike. Early morning frost forms on the windows of the hired bus bringing them to Hamburg, where they would be performing _Coppélia_ a few more times. Still, the dancers were far from thinking of the repeat as a break. After the showings ended in Annecy, the company already went on to host auditions for their next production, _Firebird_. A stray image of Xiuying prances through his head, weathered pointe shoes glinting under the lights of the stage. Hanzo fiddles with the company's name monogrammed onto the pocket of his uniform shirt: Lacroix Spotlight Ballet. It's something for Hanzo to cogitate on the ride there, since Giselle seems occupied balancing a checkbook. He means to ask her if there is any significance to the name.

However, as they reach the hotel, Coppélia is the one to engage him in conversation, outpouring various fun facts about the city. As he helps her carry her luggage up to her room, he learns more than he ever wished to about omnic sex work on the Reeperbahn. And just as he drops his things off at his room, Veronika is there to drag him to a table dance club. He spends less time fending her off than he does monitoring her alcohol intake, given Giselle's stance on drinking from the night he was caught in her kitchen. He is convinced the director might possibly kill him if he lets one of the leads get too wasted to perform. Veronika loses only enough edge to embarrass him, getting up on the tables trying to one-up an exotic dancer, an omnic with body plates accentuated by glowing neon lines. On the way out, he learns her name is D!scoTECH when he declines the invitation to a private performance. During the next day's showing of _Coppélia_ , he wonders briefly if that was actually her name, before the company gathers together to move again. Only then does Veronika thank him for keeping her in check. Basic human decency, he calls it, but when Coppélia catches wind of it, she calls it noble. He does not respond, nor give himself much credit for the act.

They fly down to Alicante in Spain, where they immediately begin tireless daily rehearsals of _Firebird_ , on set at the Santa Bárbara Castle. Given only the last few days of the second week in Spain to perform _Firebird_ , the company makes the most of their limited practice time. With her energy, Myrtle stakes her claim to the role of the titular character, with Rico emerging as the leading prince of the ballet. While the tiny dancer does not actively rub her role in Coppélia's face, Myrtle does not hesitate to boast around anyone. Even Hanzo gets an earful, much to his irritation, so he evades her during the lunch break to wander about the castle. He finds amusement in the metal sculpture of an archer leaning over a parapet and then later spots Coppélia standing atop a jutting bartizan, taking in the view of the city. He joins her, climbing to stand at her side. She briefly shares facts on the history of battles that occurred at the castle, but stops as soon as she notices he isn't listening.

The ocean has caught his eye, and he briefly thinks of how easy it would be to drown there with no one around to see. Disgusted by the idea of dying outside conflict, he derails the thought by leaving his perch, inviting Coppélia down with him when notices other visitors staring. She hesitates, before returning with him to the set. There, they find Rico and Giselle conversing in French. Hanzo comprehends just enough to know they are talking about Myrtle and a leg she broke months ago. Rico insists that his partner can manage just fine, to which Giselle concedes, too preoccupied by a headache. The audience outnumbers the seats by the final performance, leaving Myrtle in happy tears by the end of the show. Coppélia congratulates her on how far she's come. Hanzo listens on, a twinkle of something stirring in him when Myrtle is overjoyed enough to thank her for the praise.

In Casablanca, they breeze through the airport to snag a ride to the studio of Aaliyah, one of Giselle's former classmates. Aaliyah runs her mouth a mile a minute warbling in French with Giselle between _Firebird_ rehearsals and auditions for the upcoming _Giselle_ production. She puts extra stars in Myrtle's beaming eyes and makes surprisingly easy conversation with the quieter, older dancers Xiuying and Eduard. Exchanges between the three of them turn from French into Arabic, the language of their shared religion. Eduard confides in the two, mourns having so long been disconnected from his faith. The ride to the studio passing by the Hassan II Mosque, breathtaking and brilliant against the red earth, is a reminder of years of prayer left behind in pursuit of ballet mastery. Aaliyah consoles him by taking him there to pray alongside her. Xiuying joins, and speaks well of the experience when Giselle asks about it a day later.

Meanwhile, Coppélia shows Hanzo pictures she took of the mosque's exterior over several rides, pouring out commentary once again, relaying the overwhelming number of artists who toiled half a decade away to make a masterpiece of the sacred monument. Aaliyah chimes in to say her piece, how artists were not the only ones who made sacrifices so that the mosque could come to stand. The poor of Casablanca paid the price with the destruction of their homes, only to receive no recompense, and it is something she encourages them to remember when they see the impoverished in the streets. After the premiere of _Firebird_ in the local theatre, Hanzo watches Eduard give alms to a young woman and her father with a missing arm. Performances pass by. When Aaliyah nudges them off to a local men's hammam the evening before they leave, Hanzo sees the poor father once again, buying soap from the front desk. They end up alone together in the warm room after the steam bath. Hanzo is lost in thought, the etiquette of the hammam so similar and so different from long-forgotten visits to the onsen. He does not expect the old man to offer to scrub his back, nor he does he expect the favor to be done so roughly. Aaliyah's words ring in his ears as he is compelled to reciprocate, mirroring the thoroughness by which the old man had used to cleanse him. As the company leaves the city the next morning, he turns the moment over in his mind, the blessing from the smiling old man. He keeps the memory to himself, stores it away next to the sounds of Jesse's whistling and Jiyeong's laughter.

It is a too shortly-lived respite before the hell awaiting him in Numbani, where they would again be performing _Coppélia_ while starting rehearsals of _Giselle_. Although Lacroix Spotlight is not exactly world-renowned, it becomes apparent that Coppélia has certainly made enough of a name for herself to attract a swarm of omnic fans to them at the airport. All the attention forces Hanzo to the forefront, placing him amidst the dozens of reaching metal hands extended towards the omnic dancer. He does his best to suppress his nausea and lingering discomfort as they ride to the hotel, but Coppélia sees right through him. After he throws up in his room and has a sip from his canteen to wash the taste from his mouth, she stops by to give him a paper bag of care items: wrapped café saltines, a stress ball, and a bottle of water. Hanzo notices the careful way she conceals her hands from him, and the fact that she tells him to refrain from drinking alcohol offsets him greatly. The thought that she must know more about him than she lets on leaves him sleepless, try as he might to push the idea away. While she carries on as if she is unaware, her nonchalant behavior still does little to ease him.

He confronts her in private, the evening before the premiere, and she does not shy away. She tells him a little about her scanning capabilities, but withholds the background search she'd run when they first met. With her own unsavory upbringing, Coppélia would rather have him volunteer his own confirmations than pry his past out of him. She reassures him that she only runs scans out of concern, and that she will stop if he requests. Hanzo waves her off. He doesn't quite know how to feel about it, still has his doubts about her, but trusts her enough not to abuse her powers.

Unfortunately, his ordeal does not end there. Work forces him again and again back into the thicket of omnics crowing for Coppélia's attention every time he steps outside the safety of the hotel to escort her out. Enduring the tightness in his throat every day drains him and a considerable portion of his canteen, despite Giselle's commands clattering in his skull every evening he imbibes himself to sound sleep.

To add to it, even in the privacy of rehearsal and classes, tensions run high. Since their arrival in Numbani, Veronika has carried on in obvious bitter spirits. She was neither selected for a role in the main cast nor as an understudy for any of them. So one day, she practically drops Coppélia over the edge of the stage during a refresher rehearsal of their final pas de deux. Hanzo does not miss a beat thankfully, arriving barely in the nick of time to catch the omnic. Coppélia jolts out of his arms just as sharply, bowing as if penitent. Something about the apology stings him. This is his job. She should be thanking him.

Later that night, just when he thinks he can drown himself back to sleep, Giselle is livid, shouting down a weepy crocodile-teared Veronika in the room next his. He lies awake, endures it. When he can hardly stand up the night of the premiere, Giselle cuts him a break. Veronika has been swapped for her understudy, and Numbani is safe enough for Coppélia to go without a bodyguard, she reassures him. Regardless, he wallows in misery that evening, feeling like an irredeemable failure.

Significant remnants of the feeling linger in the plane ride to Nepal, and Coppélia notices, recommending vitamins to boost his immune system against physical ailment, which can worsen depressive episodes. Hanzo hotly contests the word "depressive", eliciting only a small amused sound from her as the plane lands. He'd be more offended if he found the energy for it, especially given how chipper she remains in the face of his gloom. A bus takes them up to the Shambali village, where the company would be performing _Firebird_ the first week and then _Coppélia_ for the last. Hanzo takes a deep breath in preparation of seeing more metal hands. Giselle's meets his shoulder, a small supporting pat, something to show she understands so much yet so little all at once. The cloying memory of Jesse's sad tender eyes grips him, and lets him go.

Coppélia greets a group of the locals like long-lost family, and they welcome her just as warmly. She runs up to embrace a golden-chinned monk with a wise white face plate, and fondly calls him Teacher Mondatta as she briefly introduces him to the company. Mondatta shows the company around and familiarizes them with their rehearsal space in the village forest amphitheater, before splitting off with his former pupil. Hanzo is left to trail quietly behind them as they exchange stories and questions in Russian, walking a path through the melting forest snow. He vaguely comprehends them, picking up bits dumped on him from Veronika's impromptu lessons. When he recognizes the term for "younger brother" out of Coppélia, he tunes out.

He still encounters the displeasure of learning who this brother is. The name "Zenyatta" rings disagreeably on Mondatta's voice after the last showing of _Coppélia_ , calling him away from a gruff-looking human tourist. The smaller omnic merely nods in his brother's direction, holds up two fingers in a "V", before ignoring Mondatta and walking away with the stranger. Hanzo's guts twist up as he turns away from the sight. Somehow, it was like watching a bad puppet show of him and Genji.

In Lijiang, there are no scheduled performances, only visiting students who would be dropping in to watch. Sightseeing is foregone in favor of rigorous preparations for the premiere of _Giselle_. The dancers all dedicate their energy to it, taking on the director's attitude of making up for lost time. Having been so preoccupied, Hanzo had not caught too much of the story behind the ballet until now, with the director narrating the plot out loud to each group.

Hanzo finally pays attention to the story of a fragile girl named Giselle, watches her heart break fatally by her lover Albrecht's infidelity. She is reborn by the Wilis, vengeful ghosts of women once hurt by careless lovers. They seek to grant Giselle justice by dancing Albrecht to death. But when Giselle comes face to face with her living once-lover, weeping tears of shame over her grave, she spares and ultimately forgives him. That conclusion sits behind Hanzo's sternum like a stone. Despite the knowledge that he is required to attend the next rehearsal, he tries to drink the story away.

The director catches him again, but instead of reprimand, she silently sits down beside him and holds her hand out, commanding the canteen to her grasp. _Confiscation_ , he thinks, but then she knocks back a generous gulp of the contents, and shoves it back into his hands. _Punishment_ , he corrects himself internally, although he is not so sure from the way she looks at him, like she's guilty. In a moment of blurred judgement, he confesses that the story upset him. She asks why. Hanzo closes his eyes and says Albrecht did not deserve forgiveness. Apologies do not bring back the dead. If he was truly sorry, if she really meant something to him, he would've never betrayed her in the first place. He would have let her live… or otherwise given his life to make it even. A beat of silence trickles. Giselle looks at her prosthetic, tells Hanzo that no one undoes their mistakes, but dying certainly would not have rectified the damage either. He nods. He tells her he wants to believe that someday. Giselle laughs, a soft sound that meets the ears as something sad rather than cruel. When he takes another sip, she makes no move to stop him.

In Laguna Beach, they film dress rehearsals of _Giselle_ , which the director explains is for the purpose of padding their thinning funds. Another one of Giselle's old colleagues, a multi-talented costume designer and set painter named Dominga, hosts the space where the company congregates for rehearsals.

Dominga's art studio, a chaotic array of vibrant splatters and supplies, provides itself as an unexpected source of ease. The space is whimsical, exuding the feeling of a child's playroom, and the dancers bring it to life. The company looks right at home on any stage, but when they record the final act in full costume, the experience is something else entirely from past performances. Something else that stands out to Hanzo is how, between breaks, Dominga shows frequent interest in the condition of Coppélia's feet. Through this, he comes to discover Dominga was responsible for designing and installing them.

Dominga's skill too shines through in the work done on the set and costumes. By the third act, the darkened room truly becomes a forest graveyard, made ethereal by hand-painted glowing trees. Dressed in costumes sewn from special fabric, the dancers glow ghostly. Additionally, projectors follow various performers to create an illusion of otherworldly smoke. Hanzo catches himself mesmerized by the trails of light evanescing behind the long gossamer skirts, vaguely reminded of the feeling of watching his spirit dragons swirl away.

In his memory, they tear through Genji, blazing him alive. He thinks of Genji's ghost, wonders if he is at peace or still roaming restless by Hanzo's folly. The latter image sends a soft stab of guilt through his chest. He does not pretend he is a noble man for having left the clan, or even for returning each year to pay his respects to the brother he struck down. It isn't as if he does these things for Genji's sake. But Giselle's response also held its own truth. Nothing will undo death. But if he gives up, seeks his end instead, it will not correct what he had done. He has to carry the weight forward as best as he can, otherwise his life as it stands now is meaningless. Just before Giselle calls cut, Hanzo wanders off, somewhat lightheaded. The streetlights shine down on him, but solace waits for him the dark.

"Well," A low, gravelly voice swells from the shadows, "didn't think I would find you _here_." Hanzo's blood runs cold in recognition of the voice. Who does it belong to again? He breathes, assuming the worst. He may not be armed with the storm bow left back in his hotel room, and he would've been a bit out of practice otherwise, but he caught enough private practice with Giselle on off-hours to stay sharp in hand-to-hand combat.

"Identify yourself," he commands, holding his ground and preparing to fight.

The adversary sighs, beleaguered, "Do I really have to?"

A hooded figure in black takes a step forward from the shadows. The white mask lifting to look at Hanzo is as good an indicator as any: a recognizable renegade mercenary, unpledged to anyone, but a worthy makeshift ally for the two jobs they'd worked together.

"Reaper."

"Miss me, Shimada?" Hanzo suppresses a smile, turning his head away. He wishes he weren't so happy that an incarnation of death made for one consistent thing in his life thus far.

"What do you want this time?"

"I just wanted to let you know," Reaper extends his hand out to Hanzo, "the offer's still open."

"Hmph. My answer remains the same." Hanzo rebuffs, smirking, "Permanent partnerships are out of the question." Reaper lets his hand fall to his side. Wisps of ghastly black follow the motion. Dominga certainly got it right, Hanzo thinks with a shudder. He knows Reaper's story, but not the specifics.

With a small chuckle, Reaper shrugs, "Alright then. That's strike three. Don't say I never warned you. We'll have you one way or another." Hanzo already has plenty of enemies. At this point, it matters little to him if he makes one more, though he doubts the threat that Reaper would truly turn on him.

"Will that be all?"

"Oh, I'm not through with you just yet. In fact, I have a small favor to ask of you. It's the least you can do." Reaper steps closer, looming just above Hanzo. If Hanzo is intimidated, it doesn't show.

"I am listening."

"I'd like to know if you're willing to run a job for me." Reaper crosses his arms, "Name your price. I'll even pay you in full ahead of time, if you want."

Silence billows briefly between them. Hanzo is inclined to part ways here, since leaving to take the job posed a risk to his current position. But surprisingly enough, the first factor weighing on his mind is how Giselle said they were running short. At first glance, it appears as a reckless idea. But if he went ahead and couldn't return, he could at least take comfort knowing he was able to keep the company safe from his pursuers. And if he could come back to them…

Before he could get ahead of himself, he replies, "Give me the details first."

* * *

In New York City, Coppélia is interviewed on a talk show. Regardless of what she said about funding, Giselle gets her bodyguard fitted for a crisp suit to wear when he escorts Coppélia there. On the cab ride up to the recording studio, Hanzo admires the fabric of his own blazer, quietly content. Luxuries such as these have been an aspect of his day-to-day life sorely missed. Coppélia has never seen a man look so fond and so sad at the same time.

Hesitant, she asks, "Hanzo, are you alright?"

It catches him off guard. He didn't know an omnic could sound so… worried. Even having worked with Coppélia so long, some things about her still surprise him. For the smallest moments, she has him thinking of her as a person. Whether he agrees with the sentiment or not feels unimportant at those times.

"I am fine," he answers with a small twist of the head.

Thoughts of a home long-abandoned quickly dissipate. He preoccupies himself with other, more important things. How convenient, he thinks, that the company chose this city as a venue. Hanzo's target waits in a hotel less than half an hour away by subway, not too far from the dinner party they would be attending after the interview.

"Oh, I thought your work as Swanhilda was absolutely _phenomenal_ ," The show host crows. "You and Veronika make for a powerful pair onstage."

"Thank you. And I'm sure Veronika in the audience appreciates the compliment too."

"I'm sure she does. Now, obviously, you are the only omnic dancer in your company. No doubt, you excelled playing a role originally made for a human dancer. But, when you were performing—and be honest—how did you feel about humans being dressed up as automatons? What was your opinion on their performance? Would you have preferred to work with other omnics instead?"

"Well, I do bear in mind that the casting was not exactly something we could help. Trust me, when I say that, if our director had any problems with recruiting omnics in the first place, I wouldn't be here. But are as you're aware, socially, there's been a lot of backlash against omnic artists. Because of that, many interested in the arts often find themselves discouraged from pursuing such careers. Not to mention, our lack of equal rights in various places around the world put a lot of us in poverty, which means even those willing to go into ballet cannot really afford to make the proper investments in classes and remodeling their feet. Hopefully, at some point, that will change, and I hope I get to see the day where I'm working with other omnics. But for now, with all that being said, I laud the human dancers who played those roles. I also have to add that the hard-light costume designer in Numbani did an excellent job putting the plating together, and keeping every piece coordinated with the movement of the dancers. They all put a lot of work into the production, so I'm very pleased with what they've done."

"She's a natural," Giselle croons from her seat in the audience, folding her hands together. Hanzo sitting next to her withholds comment, unsure of whether or not she was talking to him or herself.

"Well said. Another thing I'm interested in hearing about is Lacroix Spotlight's upcoming production of _Giselle_ here in New York. What can you tell us? Are you excited?"

"I'm certainly excited! However, I'm going to have to keep what I already know under tight wraps, so you'll just have to see for yourself at our premiere."

"Well there you have it, folks. If you're interested in seeing the show, go to Lacroix Spotlight's website listed here onscreen to get your tickets in advance. Thank you for being with us tonight, Ms. Coppélia."

"It was a pleasure being here," Coppélia nods, with an air of finality, a fitting note, something that resonates with her bodyguard for different reasons.

As the audience applauds, Hanzo checks the time: two hours until departure. He looks up and takes in her bow like it will be the last time he ever sees it. Even with all the unwanted memories gained over his travels, who knows if this humble instance will be a moment he wishes he didn't forget?

* * *

The company dines like royalty that evening, toasting to praises of their hard work thus far, and hopes of putting on another remarkable performance. Giselle even raises a glass to Coppélia, who bashfully did not attend the dinner, given her inability to consume food.

Over steak and fine wine, Hanzo mulls over the minutes ticking away, ignoring the familiar soreness of not truly being able to say goodbye. The dancers cause a pleasant distracting din, reminding him of his place as a witness. The role causes him little distress. Something about forcing himself to remain impersonal bestows comforting sadness, reminds him that he is in exile. When the time comes, he will make his pilgrimage back to honor the reason of his first departure, unfettered by other obligations. Then he will move on again, rolling forward in the rhythm he'd doomed himself to. He can't bring himself to hate it anymore now that it's just become routine. _Everything is as it should be_ , he thinks to himself sullenly.

So lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't notice Giselle drowning until they have to head back to the hotel.

The nearest substation is too far to walk, too much of a strain on the legs before a performance, so the dancers cram themselves into taxis bound back to the hotel for some necessary rest. Only Hanzo and Giselle are left behind by the time most everyone is gone. As a subordinate, he waits quietly for Giselle to give their destination to the driver.

Instead, she states the address of Hanzo's target location. His blood runs cold.

As the streetlights flicker by over Giselle's eyes, his pulse jumps in tandem with the seconds flitting away.

"Ms. Sauveterre," he begins quietly, "shouldn't we be heading back to the hotel?" An indistinguishable glance is her only response. Not a word of answer is uttered. Hanzo swallows.

The longer she says nothing, the more reason he has to suspect that she knows about his meeting with Reaper, about the deal, possibly about him and where he came from and all the horrible things he did leading up to this point. Half of him remembers to breathe, to carry on normally through the fear, think rationally.

But before he can make his decision to strike or flee, they reach the destination: a fancy bar. As they step out together, at last, words spill from the director's sealed lips. She wobbles, tilts her head blearily towards heaven, murmurs a soft apology in French, mixing in his name, Frauke's name, and the name of a woman he's never heard her speak about before.

"Amélie?" Hanzo echoes back, regretting once Giselle tears her gaze away from the skyline to turn back to him. He has never seen any superior of his look so wounded by three syllables.

Warning but tired, she waves and sighs in English, "Don't… repeat her name."

The reminder on his phone buzzes silent in the pocket of his trousers, signaling the possible end of this chapter in his life. Whether he likes it or not, this is how it could go: unanswered, unspoken, unknown, like so many other stories he'd never see through. Steeling himself, he pushes aside the wonder. Giselle perhaps is going to fire him now, if she knows what he's up to. But she doesn't matter anymore. Her life, her stories, her company and all their experiences may very well be a strange dream to him by the time this is over. And he feels no right to press for her story if he can't give her an honest one of his own.

The instinct to flee first presents itself, but for whatever reason, he doesn't leave. With the mildest string of obligation to keep him tethered, he escorts her to a tucked away seat in a booth, before excusing himself to the restroom. There, he makes his call to check in with Reaper.

Reaper responds with various pictures of the target, directions on how to lure them out into the open away from witnesses. Hanzo has played honeypot, and at a bar it seems like the safest tactic, but he has never has preferred sleeping with strangers. He's thinking he'll need a drink with Giselle too if he's going to get through what's to come, so he returns to his seat to check on her.

The sight of someone else meets him instead: broad frame, hair slicked back, a wide-brimmed brown hat next to his half-empty glass, the telltale glimmer of a prosthetic left hand under the bar lights, burnt cigarette filter pinched two silver fingers. Hanzo's throat goes tight. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. The man remains. His skin prickles with anxiety, but his heart swells with hope. Maybe the world _can_ be that small.

If that's the case, what is he supposed to do?

One instinctive step towards closing the gap makes a difference: wrong face shape, wrong eye color, wrong person. Jesse is long gone. Of course he is. Hanzo left him behind months ago, for the betrayal.

" _Sweetheart, trust me. I ain't a fan of breakin' promises."_

He pushes the thought away, lets it float by. This is _exile_ , he has to remind himself. Until he can pay the price of his life for Genji's, he shall give up his home. No place, and no person, who sheltered him can ever remain a constant if he can help it.

From the way he drags himself back to the booth, Giselle can't help but let out a "tsk". His shoulders stiffen at the sound, and the way her eyes harden as she glances between him and her current glass. At last, she settles on scolding him.

"You work too hard, Hanzo." There she goes, dredging up reflections of a past long gone. He apologizes as if he is talking to Jiyeong again: a low murmur, concealing profound shame. She hums.

He dismisses, glancing at her three empty glasses, "I have sleep problems."

"And that's why I give you breaks."

"I deserve no such pity," he replies, a faint aching laugh lining his voice. "I can do better than this."

Silence seats itself between them. It shows on her face: whatever she had been expecting him to say, _that_ certainly hadn't been it. He can't help but feel wrong from the way she scrunches up her face. The wine glass tilts back, contents gone. An expression of anguish and remorse crosses her features when she looks down at it.

In this light, she does not look like his superior. Face to face, she is a mess of a person, who looks like she understands what it's like to get back up too many times, to continually feel like fighting back isn't something worth doing anymore.

Then, she says, "So could I." Her palm slides down to her mouth, covering her jaw. "I promised Frauke. And I failed her. I failed you too." His heart lurches, and she worsens it, "Why can't I do this one thing right?" From her mouth, that feels wrong too.

Hanzo shifts in his seat, sitting up, "You are human, Ms. Sauveterre." _Human,_ he recalls, was the word Jesse used again and again to comfort him. Then, it slips, "No one undoes their mistakes…"

"But dying doesn't rectify anything either," she finishes, nodding. Hand over her side, she murmurs, "I don't want to die."

They quiet, then cut each other off for the night before heading back. Without prompting, she talks about Amélie. Hanzo tries to stop her from saying something she'd regret, the way he now realizes is what she did for him so many nights ago. Traffic slowly grinds to a halt. She pauses in tandem.

The stoplight washes over her, glinting on her prosthetic: a spotlight. Her hand curls into a fist.

"I am done… burying this story."

A beat skips, then Hanzo sighs, "Tell me, then."

She says Amélie was the love of her life.

Most ballet dancers begin training young, so Amélie had been her classmate and friend for as long as she could remember. Amélie had supported her through everything, from Giselle constantly slipping up in beginning classes to being promoted to pointe work. At some point in high school, Amélie headed through a rough patch, losing several friends in the process of an in-group spat. In response, Giselle had made a pact to her that they would never part. It served as solace, and inspiration. Amélie said she owed her improvement as a dancer to Giselle's unwavering support.

Eventually, they got through their exams and auditioned all around to work for the same dance company. But when Giselle was rejected, Amélie withdrew after being accepted, out of loyalty to her friend. And little did she know that _this_ would be how Giselle fell for her.

They set off together, searching for work until they hit their lucky note. When they were finally accepted to the same company, Giselle planned to confess her love as they celebrated over dinner in town. Amélie instead made another announcement: an engagement ring on her left hand, a man named Gerard, once a classmate of theirs in post-secondary school. And Giselle plastered on the biggest grin she could manage, congratulating her friend on the occasion. She felt terrible because she sincerely wanted to be happy for Amélie, but all she could find inside was heartbreak. So as they toasted to the engagement and their joint achievement of making it into the company, together, a reaffirmation of their promise to never part, the awful problem began that night. As Giselle drained her glass, she found the ache in her chest a little easier to tolerate.

Every professional dancer knew the importance of balanced and healthy eating, but ever since the celebration, late practice dinners after classes had always been accompanied by a glass of wine. A single glass turned from two, into three, into five, until Giselle didn't catch herself overindulging until she'd poured out a whole bottle, not even eating anymore. She told herself she would curb back, that as a dancer, she could exhibit some discipline to control herself. But regardless of each mental affirmation of _last one for the night_ , her hand seemed to move on its own, as if in unstoppable rehearsed muscle memory. Without realizing, she gave up fighting the habit.

 _Everything is fine_ , she soothed herself, _so long as I can dance, I can stay. I won't let Amélie down._

She wore her grin to class, compensated with raw, powerful movements to mask grace lost to inebriation. The perceived energy of her performance garnered praise. She kept the act up for years. But her mistakes caught up to her eventually, and at last she wobbled, stumbled at the worst possible time.

During a rehearsal, she fell off the edge of a high stage and crushed her arm. The arm would heal, the doctors told her, but her hand had been rendered unusable from extensive nerve damage. She explored options with them. Prosthetics had become so advanced that they seemed like the obvious choice. After the amputation, adjustment, and installment, she swallowed her pride and shame. She faced the fact that she had a problem, and so decided to retire, in order to focus on recovery. But that decision came at a price: to part and dissolve a long-standing promise.

As she invited Amélie for a drink to break the news to her at this very bar in New York, it turned out she would not be the only one leaving the company either.

"She told me she was retiring early too, so she could live closer to her fiancé, support him at work," Giselle states, solemnly. "That night, both of our dreams had been shattered, I believe. Of course neither of us wanted our dancing careers to end so early like that, but... leaving just felt like the right decision at the time. My only regret was that I never got the chance to say how I felt. And she said her only regret would be that she wouldn't get to retire as a ballet director like she wanted. So, a few years into my recovery, when I was feeling much better and sorely missing ballet, I decided to make her dream come true. It was the least I could do for breaking my promise to her."

Hanzo hesitates, before asking, "You never kept in touch with her?"

"I couldn't. By the time I was in good place to contact her, she had dropped off of social media and her old number went out of service. And she never contacted me either after she left. Maybe because I didn't initiate fast enough. She always was a shy one…" Giselle gives a delicate shake of the head. "But it's for the best, I know. I can't waste time thinking back on what could've been. I have a responsibility to these dancers." She looks at him, "And to you."

He closes his eyes, nods his head, "Thank you. For everything you've done."

Traffic unclogs. Once they reach the hotel, his stomach drops in realization. He checks the time: three hours late. He got so distracted he forgot all about the target.

Once in his room, he checks in with Reaper again, considering how to go about getting to whatever destination the task may take him. But with the thought of Giselle and all her sacrifices, a sense of duty gnaws at him. It's so _foolish_. Like every other arrangement, he knew from the beginning this wouldn't be built to last.

But in his call to Reaper, he apologizes and promises a refund as soon as possible.

"What do you mean 'refund'? I can still give you the coordinates. I know where the target's going next."

"No." Hanzo pauses, "I'm saying I can't do this."

"Come on. I know you're not a coward, Shimada…"

"I have other obligations to attend to." Hanzo regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Given the rejection at Laguna Beach, he knows how it must sound to Reaper.

"Ohhh. So _that's_ how it is?"

"Tch. Do not delude yourself into thinking they have won any _real_ loyalty from me," He defends, truthful, but it sounds too weak. He falters on an ache, for guilt of affronting Giselle like this. Shaking his head, he reasserts, "I pledge myself to no one. They are stepping stones, much like your organization is to you." _Exile_ , he reminds himself. Reaper seems to be laughing.

"If you say so. Have fun staring at ballerinas' crotches all day then."

"Have a good evening."

Reaper hangs up with a mumbled, irritated curse. Exhaling, Hanzo casts his eyes towards the window, stares into the night the way Giselle seemed to gaze into heaven. He wonders whose face she could see, if she saw memories of Amélie floating overhead.

Hanzo sees no such face, but he imagines, nearly feels Jesse's warm embrace surround him, organic arm so mindfully tucked underneath the metal prosthetic. Images of what could have happened at the bar if the stranger really had been Jesse swarm Hanzo's head. Growing more and more heartbroken, his mind finally caves to exhaustion.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Act warnings: mild suggestive themes/sexual references, allusions to past traumatic experiences (mild blood/gore** ** **, violent altercations, explosions,** non-graphic limb loss), alcohol consumption and abuse, suicidal ideation (drowning), self-destructive behavior/unhealthy coping mechanisms, catastrophic thinking, and workplace harassment/bullying (one character attempts to physically injure another character). Message or review if you would like anything else to be added.**

 **Original characters introduced:** **Coppélia's former "master"(mentioned), Aaliyah, the one-armed old father and his daughter, Dominga, Jesse's lookalike.**

 **References: A pas de deux is a duet dance in ballet. The Reeperbahn is a street in Hamburg famous for its adult establishments and pubs. A hammam is also known as a Turkish bath and similar to onsen/Japanese hot springs in that they are both utilized as public bathhouses in their regions; typically, people with tattoos in Japan are not allowed in public bathhouses, so Hanzo would have visited onsens in earlier years of his life. Laguna Beach is a city in California with a large artistic population. "Honeypot" is a term used to describe an undercover agent's tactic of seducing a target in order to get them into a vulnerable state for assassination or information extraction.**

 **-Reddie**


	3. Act III

**A/N:**

 **Okay, so this is the last act, but not the definitive ending. In like a couple of days to a week (no promises though), I should have a very last very brief epilogue chapter uploaded. And that's all I have to say on that.**

 **As usual, content warnings, OCs, and references can be located at the END of the act. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the concluding act!**

 **-Reddie**

* * *

" _We don't have time for this! Leave me!" Hanzo grits out, his wound soaking into his clothing.  
_

 _Jesse disregards the words entirely, trying to scoop the injured man into his arms despite the bullets flying overhead. Hanzo snarls, shoving at the other man with a bloody hand. A crimson handprint soaks into the scarlet fabric, and the sight weakens Hanzo considerably. Metal fingers dig into his shoulder. A dizzying nausea seizes the bleeding archer with the thought that this would be the end._

 _On the brink of finding peace with it, Jesse's flesh hand comes up to seize Hanzo's arm, grip shaky._

 _Voice a notch too loud, Jesse cries, "Like hell I'm leaving you here!" The volume has Hanzo reacting just as violently in response._

 _"You promised not to be reckless!" Voice breaking, he cries, "We made a pact!"  
_

" _Sweetheart, trust me. I ain't a fan of breakin' promises."_

 _It cracks Hanzo's heart like a bullet piercing glass, because this moment is perfect. He realizes, looking up into those worried umber eyes, that he wants to die like this. No other death is acceptable. Jesse can't take this from him. Hanzo won't allow it._

 _It hardly registers that Jesse is carrying him._

 _Losing coherence, he commands, "Put… me down…"_

 _Jesse's gaze lids shut from Hanzo's bleary eyes, shaking his head as he murmurs something soft, something penitent. The words are lost to the agony of a trickling bullet wound in Hanzo's side, the way darkness consumes his consciousness._

 _What did he hear: a prayer, an apology? Neither felt right._

At 18:00, Hanzo awakes with a start to the alarm on his phone. The faint light filtering into his hotel room peeks through the curtains, drawing him to the window. If he looks out past it long enough, he can spot the London Eye in the distance, glowing against the last traces of the sun. It marks concrete evidence of a change in location. He is an ocean away from the bar in New York. And yet he still feels as though he has not moved an inch.

 _I am still here_ , he thinks to himself blankly, absentmindedly tracing the scar under his ribs.

A knock at the door grounds him in the present. Giselle calls him, draws him away from the window, forward into the present.

"Hanzo? It's time to leave. Coppélia is waiting for you."

He answers swiftly, reminded by the tightness in the director's voice of the recent debacle at the airport, how it left Giselle red-faced and hoarse from the extensive hold-ups to scan Coppélia as they came in from New York. Already, it proved to affirm for him how unkind this city could be to an omnic.

But London could be much worse.

A late November snow fell over the city last night. Standing before the London Royal Opera House in his only winter coat, it would make for a more breathtaking sight if the sidewalks had not been littered with anti-omnic protestors. Instead, he braces an arm over her frame, throat stifled and choked with inexplicable anger. Coppélia murmurs to herself, comforting, a wispy sound hardly audible over the rabble.

"All that matters is what I choose to be now."

Internally, he questions the worth of those words when faced with such a hateful crowd.

They find haven backstage. As Hanzo is called to briskly check the perimeter for threats, Coppélia, finally having a moment alone, unravels, steadying herself against a wall before crumpling to the floor, overwhelmed by all the emotions spinning through her processors. Her late master's gift, not for the first time, turns against her as a curse. She registers the shift in the din, voices calling everyone to their places as they ready for the performance. The world whirls all around, the company moves forward, disregarding her. The show must go on. Where is her strength to stand when she needs it most?

Before she can process, Giselle gathers the dancer up into her arms, lifts her up to her feet. As Giselle slowly begins to let go, Coppélia finds herself holding on like a child, feeling undignified, but her director doesn't seem to mind either way. Coppélia stays there, cradled in her director's gentle arms.

"You're shaking." Fondly, Giselle asks, "Are you alright?"

"I can be," Coppélia answers tentatively, a trembling balance between outright truth and determination.

"Remember, I believe in you," she reasserts in that same tender tone, fingers splayed across Coppélia's shoulder plate. The dancer bows her head, humbled, wishing she could cry, smile, do something to show the director how much the words meant.

Metal fingers find their way to prosthetic ones, entwining briefly before releasing.

Giselle's heartbeat stumbles, and now it's her turn to feel undignified. Coppélia does not notice, would not judge even if a scan had been running.

"Thank you."

Giselle watches her go, just as before in so many performances. But the exhale she releases hollows out her ribcage, allowing room for something else to blossom, something altogether beautiful and terrifying. Her throat dries up, tightens in speechlessness as echoes of Amélie loom over her head. And the director holds her breath, hoping against hope that she will not drown again, half knowing and fully denying she'd already been pulled head over heels under the tide.

The crashing cymbals vibrate through her, turning her exhale into a sharp quiet gasp of "Russia". Running, she resolves that the present takes precedence, that she has worked hard to make what she has built now, and she must protect it with everything in her.

* * *

Hanzo finishes his rounds halfway into the first act of the production, but every ten or twenty minutes or so, Giselle sends him back off to check the perimeter again, as if paranoid. At first, it is unsurprising to him, as he himself was still a bit shaken over the crowd of protestors outside the theatre. To think a radical might have laid plot to infiltrate and harm her during the performance is not beyond rationality, unfortunate to think.

During intermission, she hunkers down next to him for a drink of water. As soon as he is half-relaxed, his name is thrown into the air from across the stage somewhere. Unconsciously, he breathes out a complaint of Giselle's exhaustive hypervigilance. The dancer knits her brows together, seeming angry, but almost pitifully wistful.

Veronika comments, "She doesn't want to see it happen again, I'm sure."

"Again?" Hanzo's eyes widen. Veronika seems to grow more frustrated by the repetition of the word, but he presses. "What was the first time?"

"A bomb," Are the only words Veronika can muster, deeply upset.

"Hanzo!" Giselle hisses, marching up to him, "I'm not paying you to slack off with the dancers! Go check the perimeter again!" At the involuntary beleaguered expression he makes, she fumes, "If you don't like it, then quit. It would save us the money if I did this myself too." The director turns her back on him, stomping away. He stares after her, prickled. He turns to Veronika, seeking sympathy.

For the first time, Veronika pushes him away, "Go on and apologize. She needs you now more than ever."

* * *

Veronika refuses to bring up their prior conversation when he approaches her after the show. Hesitant to talk to Giselle in her current temper, Hanzo decides later to investigate this bombing incident with Coppélia herself. But as soon as the performance is over, the dancer is disappearing through a backdoor, out into the chilly London streets. As she casts a brief backwards glance, he quickly realizes she is sneaking out _alone_.

She moves swiftly, feet light across the ground until she leaps, forcefully ascends from dumpster top to awning to roof and continues skipping across each surface like the floor of any stage. He feels his veins tighten, blood pounding in his ears as he rushes after her. He isn't worried about keeping at her heels so much as he is _angry_ that she attempt something as reckless as this on his watch _._ Surely, she must know, must be painfully aware of what sort of danger could be waiting for an omnic celebrity in a city as tense as this.

They make it all the way to the edge of King's Row, an entrance to the Underworld right before her. She halts a figure emerging from the depths of the crowded makeshift city, pleading in her voice as she clasps her hands before them.

"Could you help me at all? I don't know where else to turn."

Hanzo does not expect the harsh reply, "I don't owe you anything, princess. Get lost, before I make you." They shove past her, but she seems panicked, reaching after one of them, grasping their shoulder.

"You don't understand. I don't have much time! _Please_ -"

"I _said_ , get lost!"

When a metal fist meets her side, he cries out, "Coppélia!" All eyes turn to him. The omnics waste no time fleeing as soon as they spot him. Coppélia staggers backwards, hand over the dent in her side. She grips at her other arm, shaking. As he steps forward, she shouts.

"Hanzo, get away from me!"

"Coppélia, what wrong?" He tries to lift her arm, see the damage, but she jerks away with a grunt, running away. He follows, scaling behind her as she leaps again to building tops, over mansions, between alleyways, rising to the tops of towering buildings. At last she stops, over the precipice of an abandoned church. Hanzo catches up, closing in.

"This is your last warning: get away from me."

He fumes, "Not until you explain _what_ —"

Her arm opens with a click, hand retracting into her wide wrist. A faint beeping pulse becomes evident from a small wire-wrapped box, a timer ticking off in time to the sound. He feels his heart drop in his stomach as she yanks it out.

"Just _go_!"

She launches it into the air as high as she can get it, watching with a prayer lodged in her voice box, a quiet but desperate plea that this time, things will go right, everything will remain intact and undestroyed.

Hanzo watches the bomb explode brightly against the sky just before gravity can begin tugging it back down to where it came from. Small pieces fall to earth, nothing but ash and molten plastic bits. He is frozen in place, in shock at the sight before him, a million thoughts spinning through his head. And when Coppélia casts eyes to him, she sighs, drawing towards him at last. She crumples, frame shaking as she folds her hands over her chest, holding herself.

He hesitates, before placing a hand upon the back of her shoulder.

"I'll be alright," she reassures, voice stilted as the words buffered in between. "Just. Give me a moment."

And he waits for her, to tell her all about the loud crowds and bones and blood and wreckage all part of her memory before she was sentient, how every month her arms are programmed to create bombs inside them, about the two times she attempted to hack and detach her arms they backfired on her and nearly self-destructed, and so every time she travels, where there's no guaranteed Annecy Lake to drown her bombs in, she lives in fear of reliving the past she sought to leave behind.

"In Russia," she admits, heartbroken and so very loathing, "I was held up at a gala on the night one was set to go off, and couldn't get to open air or water in time. I told them I went back to the theatre we performed in because I had forgotten something and… no one was there. I checked, scanned multiple times to be sure. So I planted it there. The performance schedule was ruined, and we were banned from returning to that theatre even after the stage was reconstructed. They all think an anti-omnic radical planted the bomb, but it was _my_ fault." Her voice sags with shame, "Nobody else knows it was me. Not even Giselle…"

Hanzo pauses, takes in her confession, before responding, astonished and confused, "Why then, would you think this was appropriate to tell me?"

"Because…" She hesitates, before settling on a firm nod, "I've seen... glimpses of your past. But I took the time to think about what that meant, what it said about who you are now… and I thought, you and I… perhaps we could understand each other, even if just a little." Before he can reject, let alone respond to that, Coppélia looks away from him, "We should be heading back. I don't want to worry Giselle."

She leads the way, giving him only the chance to follow. On the way back, they pass by St. Paul's Cathedral. She outpours more facts, tells him the story of Paul the Apostle, about how a violent persecutor of early Christians became a dedicated writer, a fervid preacher for the people he once condemned.

"I like him," she says, with a touch of reverence. "I'm well aware he isn't perfect, but… if a ruthless killer can find redemption, be called a hero by those he'd wronged, well…" she looks skyward, like Giselle, "maybe there's a chance for me too."

The words take to him like a stab. Hanzo says nothing, suppressing tears and agreeing only internally that she had been right earlier: maybe they could understand each other.

Maybe they _do_ understand each other, perfectly.

* * *

With Hanzo as her unwilling chaperone, Coppélia approaches the Underworld unbelievably early the next morning to have the dent in her side repaired by a much kinder denizen emerging from the slum's depths. She repays them well for their efforts, but Hanzo doesn't miss her comment of wishing she could do more for them.

Days pass and Giselle never notices, never questions why they had come back late. Between classes and rehearsals, she is too busy negotiating a ticket onboard a British plane for her most beloved omnic dancer. The look of victory that crosses her expression when she secures Coppélia's seat fills Hanzo with a slight fondness, and overwhelming exasperation. _It is a basic right_ , he thinks to himself sullenly, but cannot bring himself to ever say that aloud to Giselle after all the work she had put in. He is simply grateful she is too preoccupied to notice much else.

He has no such recourse, still mulling over the consequences of Coppélia's bomb. Only one news article ever comes up about the explosion, dismissing a large flash in the London sky as a mere rumor, an imagined incident with no video evidence to capture it. He remains vigilant of the news feeds, consistently on edge until the very end of their stay. But Coppélia seems more than merry after their last performance at the opera house. He arrives for her backstage, dropping by the open door of her dressing room.

"Hush," she giggles, a single metal finger pressed against the line of her lips. "I'm in a call."

He responds matter-of-factly, "Giselle says we need to head back as soon as possible."

"Tell her she won't regret waiting a few minutes."

Hanzo huffs as he turns to report back to Giselle, only to find her right there in front of him. For a second, she looks furious, but the expression altogether melts away. Giselle isn't looking at him, but through him, caught off guard by Coppélia's remark.

With a controlled tone, he asks, "Did you hear any of that?"

"Yes. Pardon me, Hanzo." And he steps aside, letting the director into the dressing room. He hears muffled French through the wall as he waits, trying not to listen or get more involved than he has to with either of their lives. He checks his phone, eyeing the date, his departure inching ever closer.

" _Not much time left,"_ he muses to himself, feeling hollow. On the other side of the wall, he hears them laugh, and he can't help but feel like a fool. He has tried to convince himself he only stuck around to stay safe under their mobility. But here, with this company, he knows he half-hoped for something he could never have.

Soon, they are in the airplane, bound into the sky. As he looks down at the world below him, he is struck with the realization of his detachment from everyone on earth. He tears his eyes away, blinking back a surge of tears threatening to surface. Xiuying sits beside him, asleep. Hanzo channels his focus into the rise and fall of her breathing, emptying his mind of all other thoughts. But the shadows all around him swell and sink into his bones.

Hanzo convinces himself once again that he doesn't belong anywhere anymore, but he swears he will find a way to make peace with that.

* * *

The company celebrates Christmas in Annecy. The gathering is a quiet one. When Veronika arrives, she no longer wishes to speak to Hanzo, mysteriously giving him the silent treatment. To further the silence, Xiuying gently announces her retirement from the company. Myrtle hobbles up, her ankle noticeably encased in a thick cast, to ask Xiuying about future plans. And the old dancer confesses to uncertainty. She has a couple of options in mind: either returning to ice skating as a coach, or otherwise continuing ballet as an instructor. Veronika and Rico comment on how they too might take a break come springtime, but drop to a whisper too late once they notice the director in their midst. When the evening dwindles to its inevitable end, Xiuying says her farewells. Hanzo watches numbly as Giselle embraces her, arms faintly trembling.

Later in the middle of the night, on the way to the kitchen for water, he hears Giselle. On the living room couch, she is crumpled and crying against Coppélia.

Coppélia murmurs, holding her close, "You tried your best to raise funds for her knee implants, Giselle. I promise the effort was enough."

"If it was enough, she wouldn't have left!" Giselle grinds her forehead against the dancer's shoulder, "My world is falling apart, Coppélia. I don't know how we'll manage."

"We'll be alright. It isn't over yet," the young dancer croons, "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Hanzo leaves silently, sickened by the feeling that he intruded upon something he shouldn't have. The lingering ache in his heart more and more feels like evidence of his folly.

Maybe he should have just left in New York.

* * *

The next evening, he catches her up late, shaking the dust off one of several old white canvases. Painting supplies lie in little piles on the newspaper-covered floor. Hanzo can't help but notice his director's bare feet, her jutting bunions and crooked toes from the constant strain of past performances. _No wonder Xiuying had to retire_ , he thinks to himself, caught between a deeper admiration and disenchantment with the art form. He knows for certain now though, the depth of his respect for each dancer's determination.

Giselle bends and then rises to offer him a brush, with eyes like Jiyeong before a sparring match: playful, but driven.

"Hanzo, do you know how to paint?"

"I will show you what I can do, Ms. Sauveterre."

He accepts the brush into his hand.

Over the course of the month, they set to work on several paintings, a task Hanzo finds to be therapeutic on particularly bad days. Giselle creates various scenes of water: lakes glittering under vibrant orange sunsets, vast oceans spattered with sailboats, a pair of lovers admiring a river from a balcony. They all resemble Annecy in some way or another. He admires the pride she takes in her home, attempting to ignore his own longing to reclaim one.

Hanzo's homesickness shows through in images of cherry blossom trees framed through torii gates, miles of brush in the ruddy Santa Fe desert, and a smiling bride with scarlet eyeliner.

Giselle chuckles, tossing aside an empty tube of vermilion, "You certainly seem to love the color red."

The line jolts him from his focus, as he scratches the canvas with a smear of dark crimson against pale orange sky. He tries to remain calm, hoping to save the painting. He wipes the stain away with the rag, then tries to brush over it with several layers of the orange left on his palette. He tries to paint the sun over it, but the mark shows through, like a scar on Genji's flesh. He can't erase his mistakes so easily.

When she asks if he's okay, he excuses himself to go vomit. After he returns, he sees Giselle has done him the favor of discarding the old painting and given him a new canvas.

 _All that matters is what I choose to be now._

The words ring in his ears and bring tears to his eyes. This time, he can find no strength to stop the emotion from rushing out. Giselle seems stunned by the sight, but says nothing, touching his shoulder briefly before continuing with her work. He steadies himself, before continuing as well. He paints a ballet studio, with the silhouette of a single dancer at the center. The moon through the window serves as the figure's spotlight.

Towards the end of the month, when Giselle dismisses the company for a break, they eventually sell the paintings on the street and in auctions for negotiated prices. Giselle's pieces far outnumber and outsell Hanzo's. But by the end of their first afternoon out, all of Hanzo's paintings are gone, whisked away by eager locals. He is pleased only by the profit Giselle lets him keep for his own work, but bitterness sits beneath his tongue. To think that strangers are more deserving of claim to homes he can never return to… wounds him in ways he can't describe.

There are mere days between him and his departure now. As he settles to sleep for the night, he has nightmares, but not of the altercation. Instead, he is haunted by his ruined painting, clinging to it in a landfill as he sinks beneath falling mounds of bloody garbage. While he suffocates buried below it all, breathing in the rotten blood of dead rabbits and two wolves, a muffled voice attempts to reach him.

 _All that matters is…_

As he wakes up all alone in the apartment, he can't help but feel like that was biggest lie he'd ever been told.

* * *

As dawn washes over the snowy mountains of Annecy, Coppélia lets out a small gasp. Giselle and the hot air balloon pilot look to her in concern.

Giselle places a hand on the dancer's shoulder, voice soft, "Is something the matter, Coppélia?"

"It's…" Coppélia shakes her head, skewing her Ushanka, "I forgot to tell Hanzo we'd be out today."

"Oh, that? No need to worry. I left him a note on the kitchen table, so he'll be well aware of where we are in case he needs to contact us."

"…I see." As Giselle readjusts the dancer's hat, Coppélia murmurs shyly, "Thank you."

"Hmph, what kind of boss would I be if I didn't keep him informed?"

Coppélia covers her mouth, "Ah! My apologies! I don't question your professionalism at all!"

Giselle goes silent at that and simply smiles, but then slowly takes her hand away. Coppélia curls into herself somewhat, wondering what she'd said wrong. Giselle stares out at the land below them, so high up. She feels somewhat disoriented, a dreamy weightlessness that airplanes and alcohol could never give her. But she wonders how much of that is caused by Coppélia's company.

"Well, you should," she murmurs at last, tugging slightly at her violet scarf.

Coppélia perks up, "Hm?"

"You should question me, sometimes. Given everything you've gone through."

"Hm." Coppélia takes a moment to think, folding her hands over her knees, fiddling with her thumbs. "Well, I haven't perceived anything worth questioning. I trust you. You're a good person."

"Oh?" Giselle chuckles, "And what has led you to think that?"

Without hesitation, Coppélia responds, "You've always believed in me, looking at me for what I can be instead of what I have been. I owe you," she pauses, catching herself, "…great respect for that."

"Respect…" the director echoes, softly. Coppélia nods. Giselle continues, "I'm curious, Coppélia. Why did you go to the trouble of booking this flight for us? Just to thank me?"

Before Coppélia responds, the pilot chimes in, "Ladies, we'll be landing soon, so be prepared." They affirm the pilot's message before continuing with their conversation.

"I'll tell you later," Coppélia admits. "There's… more to it than that."

Giselle's heart twists needlessly in her chest.

 _What am I to you?_

* * *

 _How much could I mean to them anyhow?_

Hanzo wonders while packing his belongings together. And what did it matter, really? If anyone cared enough to miss him, they would move on with their lives eventually, as he does every time. And he already knows he could never remain here, not when his very presence endangers them further and further the longer he stays. He doesn't want to think about Eduard screaming in agony, about Myrtle mourning with Rico's corpse in her arms, about Giselle held at gunpoint or with a knife to her throat.

An early start on his departure may do more good than harm for the company.

Packing away his storm bow, he can envision the course of events that would follow his departure: Giselle would panic, and then cry—

" _My world is falling apart, Coppélia."_

For a second, the image of her sobbing over Xiuying stops him cold. Guilt descends upon him like a wave, brief but overwhelming. Then he continues the train of thought. After that, she might consider filing for a missing person report. But ultimately, she would have to move on and find another bodyguard to replace him. Still, he is haunted, to think of all the work she put in for him, for the entire company, only to watch it fall apart. He doesn't want that for her, for someone so noble.

Ruefully, he leaves behind the earnings he made off his paintings. It is penance, for betraying her like this. It is condolence, a prayer that she will get to keep her world the way Hanzo never could.

Hanzo boards a bus. As he glances behind him to say farewell to Annecy, Coppélia reaches for him one last time.

 _All that matters is what I choose to be now._

Any truth to that, Hanzo decided, would apply only to people like Coppélia. She had only ever committed such gruesome acts as a machine, never as a sentient force. She never chose to murder those civilians. But Hanzo certainly chose to murder his brother.

Nothing will ever change that.

* * *

The balloon lands in the commune of La Clusaz. After getting off, Giselle and Coppélia wander into the nearest restaurant for warmth and a bite to eat. Unknowingly, Coppélia does her director a favor by ordering her a hot chocolate with the meal, preventing the temptation of a glass of wine. Relieved and cozy, Giselle sighs happily as she sips from her mug. The poor abashed dancer looks aside, hiding the smitten flicker in her eye-lights. Coppélia is immensely thankful to find there aren't many other patrons around, most everyone too busy skiing outside.

When Giselle picks up the conversation where they last left off in the balloon, Coppélia stumbles over her words, grasping for her voice until she find it at last.

"I didn't book the flight solely to thank you, Giselle," Coppélia folds her fingers into fists against the table, "I wanted to show you… how much I love you."

And she does. She speaks at length of her love, expressing the height of such affections further in unconscious pantomimes with her hands. And Giselle watches, listens in awe and slight surprise, despite having half-suspected the sort of love Coppélia had held for her for quite some time. Then the goldenness of Coppélia's eyes strikes her, and suddenly she is across a dinner table from Amélie.

" _Dancing under the spotlight without you would be pointless," Amélie slides her hand across the table, not breaking her gaze. "I'm not leaving your side so easily, Giselle."_

Giselle's eyes respond by forming tears, as soon as she is overwhelmed with the sadness that they cannot be. Coppélia is a dancer in her company, not a suitor, and certainly more than a proxy for a beloved friend long gone. And what better way for a ballet director to ruin a company and a companionship than dating the dancer she houses?

Giselle exhales in disbelief and despair, "Coppélia… don't you know what this means? Why love me of all people?"

"Because, Giselle," Coppélia takes her hands, "you made me believe I was more than a monster. I could never ask for anything more from someone as compassionate and gracious as you. I love you."

Giselle takes her hands away, unconsciously moving them up to hold Coppélia's face. The temptation to kiss her is immense, and yet… could she really foster the downfall of the dream she worked so hard to make a reality? For the first time, Giselle feels trapped within her role as a director, her role as the builder of a dream come true. For the first time, she sees a future before her that she never before dreamed she would ever want: to continue living together with the dancer in front of her, to continue to support Coppélia on and offstage for the rest of her life. She envisions a love returned at long last, and all she has to do is reach out and accept it.

 _It was never your dream to begin with, Giselle._

Yet Giselle lets her hands fall.

 _But I have a responsibility to its reality._

"I love you too. But before everything else, I am your director."

"Giselle…?"

"I'm saying we can't. Not as long as I run this company."

"…I understand." Coppélia's tone drops to something monotone, "Thank you for being honest with me."

"Thank you for such a lovely outing."

"It was my pleasure!" Coppélia replies, the spark of sincerity still ever so present in her voice. It makes Giselle's heart twinge in ways she can hardly tolerate.

The director rises to her feet, holding out her hand, "Now, let's head home, shall we?"

Knees weak, Coppélia takes her hand much like the day Giselle had found her. As they sit together in the ski lift down the mountain, she helplessly falls further in love with the way Giselle won't let go of her hand, as if afraid to lose her.

All that occupies Coppélia's mind is how she will ever find the will to move on, until the lock on the front door clicks open, and the world turns upside down in less than a second.

As Coppélia flees, she is grateful that she only needs to use internal processes to send a text.

* * *

Hanzo's phone goes off with rapid texts from Coppélia. Thinking he may as well close this chapter of his life, he makes the mistake of reading the texts as soon as the bus nears its first stop.

" _Giselle and I are headed home. See you soon." –Coppélia, 14:44:32_

" _Hanzo, where are you?" – Coppélia, 15:02:45_

" _I'm heading back out." – Coppélia, 15:04:03_

" _Tell me where you are right now." – Coppélia, 15:04:07_

" _This is urgent! What is your location in town?" – Coppélia, 15:04:42_

" _Please respond right now! Giselle is danger!" – Coppélia, 15:04:58_

" _There's a woman in the house looking for you." – Coppélia, 15:05:05_

" _Are you okay?" – Coppélia, 15:07:39_

" _Please, answer me!" – Coppélia, 15:10:23_

" _Meet me at the apartment" –Hanzo, 15:11:36_

Hanzo bolts off at the bus stop.

* * *

Even now, Giselle doesn't quite believe it, but it begins to sink in just enough to hurt.

The girl spinning at the center of the room, the promise, the engagement ring over a candlelit dinner table, all come pouring out of Giselle's eyes like endless gallons of burning white wine. The director _sobs_ as she curls in on herself, hidden away under her kitchen table with a near-empty bottle of wine. As she drains last gulp with a choked hiccup, she damns all grace she once performed for the girl she so loved and cherished, the girl who unknowingly set off years of repressed suffering and struggle. It starts to sink in that Amélie is not just gone but _dead_ , devoured by the woman slinking through her apartment now, with a rifle in hand and a threat in throat.

"No one can hide from my sight."

She says it with a laugh that sends a shudder through Giselle, followed by a jolt as she kicks something down.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god…"

Trying to quiet her own breathing, Giselle tries to listen for footsteps, but she hears none. Silent and nimble, footsteps still so much like the brilliant dancer Amélie once was. Apparently this so-called "Widowmaker" can be bothered to retain muscle memory but not the memories of her best friend. At this, Giselle tightens her grip on the bottle neck. Her assailant's feet come into sight.

"Better to come out now than have me find you," She coos, speaking _English_ of all things, as if she assumed Giselle was some foreigner living abroad. "It might hurt less that way."

"You can't hurt me," She chokes out in French, before screaming, "more than you already have!"

Giselle smashes the bottle against the ground as Widowmaker turns, before tossing the table over her head. Rising quickly, Giselle watches Widowmaker collapse beneath the table with a grunt. Giselle takes her chance to strike while her adversary is down, crying out with every aching feeling in her chest, only to miss as Widowmaker recovers quickly.

The bottle is knocked from Giselle's hand with disorienting speed. Before she can regain her bearings, the butt of the rifle jabs into her gut. She falls backwards with a yelp, pain further increased by the sudden foot pinning down her arm. She is immobilized, unable to think past the wrenching agony.

Switching to French, Widowmaker glowers, "I will ask again. Where is Hanzo?"

"I'm right here!" Hanzo bellows, bursting into the kitchen.

Widowmaker takes aim, only to be tackled instantly by Coppélia from the left. Her rifle clatters to the ground, letting out a stray shot. A tranquilizing dart, not a bullet, flies out and sticks into a cupboard. As Coppélia pins the assassin back against the counter, Hanzo takes advantage of the distraction and secures Giselle from the floor. With her, he clears out of the room, Widowmaker howling furiously behind him as he escapes.

"Don't you ever dare think you're safe! We'll be dragging you back to Talon to by your hair someday, I swear it!"

As the door slams shut behind him, he looks down at Giselle in his arms as he runs. With a groan, she barely stirs.

"Giselle, are you alright?"

She only responds, "Co…Coppélia."

"She will be fine," he reassures, "now quiet."

His words reach her like fog, and she slips back into unconsciousness. Hanzo cringes when he thinks he hears an explosion half a block away.

* * *

" _If that style is Shotokan, you seem like you could use a sparring partner."_

 _Hanzo looks away from his punching bag stand, not expecting a stranger at a French gym of all places to recognize his style of martial arts. He sees his challenger, a woman with wrapped feet and strong legs. She holds two collapsible headgear helmets under one arm, and has the eyes of an upstart._

 _Sending her a scowl, he replies, "Are you meaning to imply I have bad form?" She shakes her head._

" _I'm only meaning to say I want to see such excellent technique in practice," She holds out a helmet. "Shall we?"_

 _Taking the gear, he smiles wearily, "Your name, first."_

" _Giselle." She bows, "And yours?"_

" _If you get me on the ground," He mirrors her gesture, "I will tell you."_

Hanzo remembers how they first met, how he'd been thrown off his guard by a flash of Jiyeong in her eyes, and how she relented immediately after he had fallen. Granted, it wasn't solely his weakness that secured her victory. Rematch after rematch and every moment he spent working with her had shown him the profundity of her strength: a force that existed in her spirit as well as her body.

Now there are no words to express how frail Giselle looks, passed out on the motel bed. She is undeniably human. Every human heart breaks. But he thinks this is the first time he has seen someone other than himself with a broken spirit.

He wonders what to say to her when she comes to, how to tell her she and Coppélia need to relocate now that Talon has found him, how to admit that perhaps Coppélia may not even return, how to properly apologize for all the damage he has done to her life. Again, he berates himself for disappearing in New York, like he should have. Because of his selfishness for companionship, there will be no recovery for this company… only ruin. But this is nothing new. Every place, every person he makes a home with, only ever ends with destruction. Today has only further proven that for him…

The sound of his phone buzzing against the wooden nightstand fills him with an indescribable relief.

As he replies to Coppélia, Giselle groans, attempting to sit up. Her abdominal muscles protest to the strain, and she finds herself easily falling onto her back again, aching.

"You're injured, significantly on your left arm as far as I'm aware." He informs, beginning to delete all of his texts from his phone. "Don't strain yourself."

She sighs, looking to the ceiling, "Where are we?"

"A Swiss motel room." As the phone erases his message history, he stares off into the corner, "Do not expect to stay long. Coppélia will arrive to pick you up in about forty-five minutes." He hangs his head, murmuring, "From there, you two should decide together where to head next."

"Wh…what do you mean by that?"

"The two of you… can't stay in Annecy anymore." He begins, heaving a sigh, "There are people hunting for me, and so…"

He loses his words, feeling powerless. How can he stand there and confirm for her that all her hard work, all her years of struggling, had gone to waste? How can he tell her in detail that he has irreparably ruined this company by accepting her employment? Words cannot begin to convey his regret, the remorse that he had death in his very grasp and still _lived_ to continue ruining lives the way he has been ever since his accursed wrongdoing. He tries to hold onto the words of the broken woman before him, how mistakes are never undone and how death doesn't rectify. But they elude him, hardly anywhere to be found under the shame burning through his veins.

"You're leaving," she utters, more of a realization than finishing his statement.

 _I never planned to stay_ , he wants to confess. But he doesn't think he can bear it.

Instead, he bows at the waist, his voice steady but soft, "I'm sorry. Giselle."

Without another word, he begins to walk away.

She calls, voice rising, "Hanzo, wait—"

The door shuts behind him, for good this time. He moves forward, past the sounds of her sobs beginning behind the room window, stomping over the growing ache in his own heart. He does not get to see Giselle responding to the texts Coppélia continues to send on his phone. He does not get to see Giselle's weeping eventually die on Coppélia's shoulder. He does not get to see them take a cab out to the nearest airport, using Hanzo's painting money to fund their journey to safety.

Only once he is in an airplane back to Japan does he look back, fingers curled against the window as if trying to cling to Annecy somehow. Irrationally, he keeps his other fist balled up in his coat pocket, waiting for the phone he left behind to go off, for Coppélia to update him, tell him she and Giselle are safe. He sits fidgeting until he manages to convince himself that they are both dead, as a temporary delusion for sanity's sake. If he retreats inward to his memories for comfort, he can still clearly hear Coppélia's mantra reaching for him.

But all of it escapes. Spring comes at last, bringing life to everything except him. Once again, he is alone, paying respects on his knees in Hanamura. And in that, he finds both bitterness and belonging.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Act warnings: allusions and depictions of traumatic experiences (violent altercations/brutality, mild blood/gore, near-death experience, bomb explosion), suicidal ideation (fatal bullet injury), self-destructive behavior/unhealthy coping mechanisms, and catastrophic thinking. Message or review if you would like anything else to be added.**

 **Original characters introduced: omnic civilians, hot air balloon pilot.**

 **References: The London Eye is the tallest Ferris wheel in Europe. An Ushanka is a type of Russian fur hat. Shotokan karate is a style of karate that prioritizes constant personal self-improvement and fostering a sense of respect for other people; in sparring, practitioners of this martial art form bow before and after each match to indicate non-hostility; modern training requires practitioners to use protective gear to prevent/minimize injury during training.**

 **-Reddie**


	4. Epilogue

**A/N:**

 **Actual last installment! If you're looking for warnings and stuff, those are at the end as usual. Please enjoy~**

 **-Reddie**

* * *

"Yikes," Dominga shakes her head, observing the gaping holes where Coppélia's arms were once attached. "If you're asking me how long it'll take to get you patched up, this is two, pushing three years of repair work, at the very least. Even longer if you're still gonna be dancing."

Coppélia responds, "Don't worry. We're taking time off, so take as long as you need on repairs."

"You don't have to sugarcoat it for her, Coppélia. I already told her I disbanded the company." Coppélia and Dominga both turn at the sound of Giselle's voice. She walks in carrying old sponge brushes from the outdoor storage shed, turning eyes to Dominga, "Were these the ones you were looking for?"

"Yeah, that's it!" Dominga leaps up, snatching them up. "Okay, I'm gonna head down to the studio and get some work done. I'll see you ladies later." With that, Dominga gives two brief embraces and takes off in a hurry, the door not quite closing behind her. Giselle finishes the job for her, before looking to Coppélia.

"So now can you tell me what happened to you back there?"

Coppélia teases fondly, "I promised I would, didn't I?" Giselle's metal index finger pokes at her forehead in response, before tracing down to her chin.

"You did." She leans in like she's going to kiss Coppélia, only to murmur, "Now tell me."

And so Coppélia tells the whole truth: that all along her arms could produce hard plastic bombs, and that she set one off when Widowmaker decided to capture her instead. Coppélia admits that Widowmaker had managed to drag her halfway through the hall before she set it off, and that in the explosion, the only feat she managed was a getaway. Going further, Coppélia confesses that the bomb probably wasn't even necessary, that she did it hoping to finally get rid of her arms, or otherwise die fighting like she should have so long ago. She only barely explains what happened in Russia, before Giselle stops her.

"That's enough…"

"I still have more to—"

"For now, that's enough," she commands, but there is a gentleness in her words that conveys a lack of anger. Taking her hand away, she sets a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner, Giselle. I was… too ashamed. I already caused you so much trouble by staying. I should've left and just…" She ducks her head in shame, but Giselle lifts her chin up again, to look into her eyes.

This entire mess, the destruction of everything Giselle had ever clung to almost feels… freeing. To know that all had been lost makes her ache with emptiness, but she finds potential in that pain the same way she had when she began pointe work. Something about being here, away from Annecy and in a foreign friend's home, refreshes her. Laguna Beach now sets her at ease in a way that it didn't while they were on tour. Now, it is as if the performance is finally over, and Giselle can come home to a lover instead of a bottle of wine.

And maybe Coppélia might feel the same, with her arms gone and no more dancers to harass her when Giselle isn't looking. And yet all Coppélia can dwell upon is everything she's done wrong, like Hanzo brooding over a canteen in Lijiang as if every wrong he'd ever committed weighed visibly on his shoulders.

"You and Hanzo," Giselle chuckles, shaking her head, "must have gotten along rather well."

"What do you mean… by that?"

"Let me tell you something I told him, Coppélia. No one undoes their mistakes," Giselle leans in close, wrapping her arms around her, "but dying doesn't rectify anything either."

"You're no fair," Coppélia says, voice wavering like she's weeping. All she can do to show her appreciation is nuzzle into Giselle's embrace. But it doesn't feel like enough. Speaking her thoughts out loud, "Everyone in that company wanted me gone. Even you could feel it, and yet you defended me so much. What can I possibly do, to make it up to you?"

 _Stay with me_ , Giselle wants to say, but it sounds too imposing. Besides, this love is worth far more than a life debt.

"You don't owe me anything, Coppélia. All I ask is that you choose what you think would make you happiest."

"I love you, Giselle." Coppélia croons, shifting so that their foreheads meet. "You make me happy. May I ask again… if we can be together now?"

"My answer is already yes."

They can't tell who moved first. But when the kiss does happen, Giselle and Coppélia can't really bring themselves to care.

* * *

Three years take off and it's summer again. Hanzo finds himself safely arrived at a Russian hotel, having just received pay from a client near the border of Kazakhstan. He strips off his bloodied clothing with a wince, before bathing himself in darkness and silence. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he might be able to better hear the wind whirling outside. The sounds of that storm somehow soothe the storm within until he hears Genji scream. His canteen is empty.

He has a fitful night's rest, drifting in and out of deep sleep.

In his dreams, he seizes at least one lost opportunity: learning a simple ballet lift from Coppélia, dressed in their attire from the New York interview. As he looks down, he sees Giselle's old weathered pair of men's ballet flats fixed to his feet, tinted red by the Moroccan earth. They stand on the parapet of the castle in Alicante, and Coppélia moves to do an arabesque. His left hand is fixed securely to the middle of her frame, supporting her. But he faces the opposite direction, unable to tear his eyes away from a blurry picture on the horizon. He's waiting for Jesse to come back, so focused on it that he almost doesn't hear Coppélia speak. She repeats her usual words of encouragement to herself, hardly a murmur, but something about it seems powerful.

That's how he notices the stark difference between their positions: she is looking forward, and he can't stop looking back.

She directs her attention to him, speaking in Jiyeong's voice, "Hanzo. You're more than a monster. I promise."

He genuinely wonders aloud, "And what would you know about it?"

As soon as he's awake, he's moving on again for the nearest airport.

Still suffering jolts of anxious hyperawareness from his recent job, he concedes internally to drowning it at a nearby bar. On the way there, he passes by a theatre. One of the coming soon posters at the entrance displays an omnic dancer with familiar glowing yellow eye-lights.

An explosion in the London sky hits him, followed by trembling metal limbs, St. Paul's Cathedral, roaring protestors standing in the snow, and a quiet reassuring mantra. The words return to him jumbled by the passage of time, but they rise above all else, as if trying to beckon him back to a home he knows doesn't exist anymore.

"What I choose now," he exhales without thinking, "is all that matters."

Hanzo looks up at the poster, seeing Coppélia's new dainty arms, before looking at his own hands. And what has he chosen now? He has to tear himself away from the poster before he gets too wrapped up inside his mind, inside of realities that no longer are. But of all things, the memory of an omnic dancer and her director stay close to his heart among a million little memories, as if rooting for him to stay alive despite the overwhelming desire to be dead.

At the bar, he wishes he had stopped believing in second chances. He believes time and liquor could possibly drown the notion for good, give him an excuse to expire already. As he downs another shot of whiskey, he nearly doesn't notice someone claiming the seat right next to him.

"Well," a familiar, comforting drawl greets, "fancy seeing you here, darlin'."

Hanzo lifts his eyes from his shot glass, blinking back tears as he recognizes the man sitting next to him.

"Jesse…"

"Good to see you again," Jesse's eyes crinkle, "Hanzo."

No anger presents itself, only warmth. Hanzo buys him a drink, still intending to leave after the evening ends. But Jesse seems to understand, as he throws his arm around Hanzo's shoulders, toasting to the hope that tomorrow never comes. The thunder outside roars in agreement, as rain begins trickling down.

There is no such thing as home, but moments like these come pretty close.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Epilogue warnings: mentions of limb loss, mild blood, and alcohol consumption.**

 **No new characters.**

 **No cultural references.**

 **-Reddie**


End file.
